For the dark
by thegirlwhocan
Summary: six months after season 8. The King of Hell wants rid of the Winchesters once and for all, and thinks he has the perfect solution. Cas wants his grace back. But what if an angel's grace is it's soul? Things are bigger and more complicated than they seem, but for once - Time isn't running out. That's the problem, and if they don't solve it, they'll always come full circle: end here.
1. Whack 'n' Roll

**Part I: The road to Nowhere**

* * *

'Whack 'n' Roll'

"Damn it" Dean Winchester swore, as the last book in his pile proved to be utterly useless. Four hours and twenty-seven different books revealing jack squat after he'd sat down, he was tired and no closer to a solution. "Nothing?" asked Sam from across the room. The older Winchester got up from his seat, stretching before crossing to the liquor cabinet. Dean shook his head sullenly, "Drink?" he offered, nodding towards the bottle as he poured his own. "No thanks" Sam replied, glancing back at his own painfully short stack of books left. It was hopeless, there was nothing there. Dean shrugged and gulped his own drink, draining the glass quickly. He sat back at the table, rubbing his eyes with his spare hand. "You should get some sleep" Sam commented.

"So should you" his brother couldn't be bothered to counter the claim, it was true. They'd been up for days, chasing red herrings and false trails. Sam inclined his head in agreement. "Well, while we're wasting our time, we might as well turn every stone. I'm heading to see Garth, maybe one of his contacts knows something" Dean said, pulling on his green jacket, "you alright here?"

"I'm fine – I'll look through these and then try the internet again."

"Okay, be careful Sammy"

Sam nodded, "You too."

With this ringing in his ears, Dean walked out of the bunker into the chilling night air. It was dark out, the day drained of its light and dull. He sighed heavily as the impala opened with a click, sitting behind the wheel and just closing his eyes in resignation. He leaned his head back, eyes closed, and hands on the wheel. It had been a long week for them. After a minute or two he straightened, turning the key in the ignition so that his car purred to life. "I still got you, baby" he said affectionately to the car, a ghost of his former smile lighting up his face momentarily. He pulled away from the bunker, driving quickly down back roads until he reached the freeway.

Meanwhile, back at the bunker, Sam threw the last book to the floor in frustration, empty handed again. He pulled his hands through his hair, tangling them in it, as he inwardly groaned. He hadn't slept in days, hadn't eaten. Every fibre of his being was focused solely on finding this one; he knew Dean felt the same. Because this time it was personal, for them both. So he picked up the grainy CCTV photograph for the millionth time, scanning it for clues – but his eyes were always drawn to where he didn't want to look. Not at the family in the background, dismembered with their guts spilled across the room. Not even at the message scrawled on the wall behind, written in dripping blood 'Hello, boys'. No, the only place Sam's gaze would rest was on the demon in the foreground, as he left the shot. His eyes were deliberately on the camera, taunting them. It was a message for the Winchesters, no doubt – but it was impossible. Because the demon in the photograph was no man they'd seen before, except for one feature. That was what fixated Sam's attention now, and plagued his nightmares. A pair of yellow eyes looked back.

* * *

SUPERNATURAL

* * *

"Dean" Garth entered the room cheerfully, greeting what he considered to be an old friend. Although he was the older of the two brothers, Dean was shorter than Sam, a fact he resented whole-heartedly; using the defense that Sam got the height while he got the looks whenever Sam made a point about being taller. His hair was brown, cut closely to his head, changing the shape of his face to highlight his cheekbones. His vivid green eyes glittered with intelligence, although people didn't see him as smart. Sam was the 'brains' of their operation, but Dean's intelligence couldn't be denied: it showed when he was hunting, that was where he really excelled, coming up with plans and strategies. Most people, those angels and demons, underestimated him a lot.

Dean turned to face him with a half-smile. "Now it's a party" he commented dryly, "Hey Garth." The weedy-looking man, with a scruff of beard and a battered cap that once belonged to Bobby walked confidently for such a little guy. He was followed into a room by a younger man, barely an adult: clean shaven and physically fit, with a long gait and serious face. Dean looked suspiciously at the new man, eyebrows raised at Garth. "Oh, this is Drew" he said in answer, "He's a hunter from Scotland – been helping me out on a case with-"

"Let me guess, the loch Ness monster?" Dean tried sarcastically, to which the younger hunter looked unimpressed. Shrugging and straightening his face, he nodded quickly at the other man. "Dean Winchester" he introduced himself.

"I've heard of you" the boy replied, "I'm Drew McInlay. And it was a particularly nasty werewolf, not a monster." Dean nodded again rather awkwardly, turning to Garth, who had crossed the room and took a chair at his 'office': a small, severely cluttered desk stacked to the brim with dusty volumes of books and several phones. "So Garth, think you can help me?" he asked.

"I'll put out a hunter APB on any yellow eyed demons, sure. I'll call up all my contacts too."

"Make sure you ask them if they've heard the name _Azazel _anywhere around too, any rumours, anything that could help" the Winchester prompted.

"Why's this such a big deal to you boys anyways, Dean?" Garth asked, leaning back on the chair to watch his friend. The hunter looked away, pretending to look over the books on a shelf, "It just is, okay. Me and Sam, we got history with this demon."

"I thought you said it was one you knew nothing about on the phone?"

"Well, maybe not this demon specifically, but one like him." He answered. "Scarily like him" Dean added under his breath. If this demon had any connection, any at all, to Azazel, they were in trouble. Yellow eyes was dead. He knew it, he'd told himself that enough times. So why was this demon with yellow eyes so familiar showing up now? One of Crowley's ploys to throw them? A trap? Whatever it was: they had to find out. They wouldn't stop until they did.

"You need some help?" Garth's friend Drew, the young hunter, offered. He stood tall for a kid, and couldn't have been more than twenty two, but he looked so much older. The life will do that to you. Dean studied him for a moment quietly. The kid seemed alright, solid enough and not the revenge-driven lunatics half the hunters were, but Dean knew it wouldn't work out. "Sorry kid, me and my brother – we don't play well with others" He smiled apologetically.

"Well, the offers still there if you need it" the boy said earnestly, he looked to Garth, "In that case, I'm heading out to Alabama, heard there was a problem up there with something killing cops - think it might be a spirit."

"Alright. Be careful, Drew. Call me if you need anything" Garth told him, and after a nod to both men, the boy parted. Soon after, a car could be heard starting outside before its wheels ground against the asphalt and off into the distance. "Seems like a good kid" Dean commented to Garth, jerking a thumb to where the hunter had just left.

"Yeah, he is" The weedy man agreed, "Poor bastard's too young for this life"

"Tell me about it" Dean muttered darkly. "What's his story?"

"The usual, daddy got possessed and tried to kill 'im. Hates demons guts, but he's a damn good hunter. Not the type to make rash decisions cause of his own feelings, smarter than that - but boy can he get violent. Once saw 'im tear a demon apart to get some info"

"Dangerous?"

"Don't think so, he works for me, don't he? I keep 'im away from demons much as I can, he keeps his nose clean" Garth said, "But that's not why you're here, so why don't you tell me what's goin' on?" Dean looked at him, seeing that look in Garth's eyes, like a dog with a bone. Sighing with the revelation his sort-of-friend wouldn't give up easy, Dean took a seat opposite. He started, "It's Sam-"

* * *

Tired of looking through crime-scene reports, or trawling websites and pointless contacts, Sam decided that there was only one thing for it: he'd go to the crime scene himself. Dean had forbidden it, saying that the demon had gotten its eyes on camera to lure them in, and they couldn't go looking for a fight this time. His brother said to be smart, to keep quiet until they'd figured it out. But Dean wasn't there, and what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. The way Sam saw it, his brother would be gone three, four hours at Garth's, giving him some time. He would to go the morgue; check out the bodies, talk to the detectives working the case; then the big one: the crime scene. Easy day's work, except it wasn't. Yellow eyes, he'd made Sam the monster he saw himself to be, killed their mother – it was never easy with him. Still, he had to try.

Sam was tall as an evergreen, towering over nearly everyone they encountered, but the softness to his eyes and demeanor ensured he was not a threatening guy. Sure, if he was mad, or Dean in danger, the younger Winchester could be terrifying, but when it was just him, he was genuinely sweet and simple. He worked hard to keep healthy, not helped by his brother's taste for fast food, and could definitely carry his weight in a fight. Between that and the height, he should have been unapproachable, but Sam was kind at heart; it seemed to shine through to his actions. He was better with people: he always could empathise and know what to say to help. All he wanted to do nowadays was help, to make amends.

It was simple enough to steal a car: an army green jeep off the side of the road in Kansas. Sam jimmied the lock, started the ignition; then was off, his fading taillights the only trace he was ever there. The family had been killed in San Jose, Northern California. Near Stanford, where he'd met Jess – a cruel coincidence? He didn't think so, hardly anything happened to them accidentally these days. It was a good night's drive away, but he'd get a head start on Dean anyway. His brother, he hated yellow eyes too, but he didn't understand. Sam's whole life, everything - yellow eyes had taken it away. Made him a freak, a weapon, the perfect little demon child. And Sam Winchester wouldn't let it stand again, not this time. He'd rip that bastard apart himself if he had to, with his own bare hands. But Dean, he never had that connection to yellow eyes like Sam. So he couldn't understand why Sammy _needed _to find him quickly, to kill him and be sure he wasn't coming back. He'd left a note for Dean, saying he wasn't going to cause any trouble, just look over the bodies, but he knew his brother would come tearing after him straight away. Twenty hours: a night and half of tomorrow away, waited yellow eyes. _Well,_ thought Sam, _He better be ready. Cause I'm coming. _

* * *

"Sam," Dean entered the bunker, which was unusually quiet and dark. "You there?" Silence answered. He pulled his gun from his pocket, raising it to arms level as he crept quietly now, listening for the sounds of someone inside the bunker. Making his way quickly through the entrance hall, then on into the vast library, nothing unusual met him. No robbers or demons or anything. He listened closely, but the only sound that could be heard was his own erratically beating heart inside his chest. Figuring there really was nothing there, that nothing had taken or attacked his brother; Dean lowered his gun, flicking the lights. As he did, a crumpled piece of paper left standing on the huge oak table caught his eye. Walking forwards hastily, he snatched up the paper, green eyes scanning its contexts in seconds. When he did, he crushed the paper in his hands, screwing up his eyes in frustration as he threw the paper to the ground, "_Damn it, Sammy."_

He was in the car in seconds, the engine revved up and lights blinding as he tore down the highway. As he cruised, gaining pace, he fished out his phone with one hand and clicked a few buttons; calling a number Garth had given him earlier and holding it to his ear as he drove. The line clicked on the other end, so he spoke directly. "It's Dean Winchester, we met earlier at Garth's? If that offer still stands," Dean hated asking for help, but there was nothing for it, "I could really use a hand."

* * *

Dawn broke, as it always did. Sam always liked mornings best, mostly because his brother hated them, but also because it was a constant thing. No matter how bad things got, day would always come. He found comfort in that, as much he could, and carried on. It was bright that day, and at 11:30 as he pulled into California state medical department. The morgue was a grey, blank building, as lifeless as its occupants. The windows were tinted to be mirrored, reflecting Sam's tired, haggard face back to him as he entered. A suit and tie made him look the part normally, but a haunted look revealed him, making it that much harder to maintain his cover.

"Hello ma'am, I'm with the Federal authorities" he flashed his FBI badge, "I just need to take a look at some of the cadavers in your morgue." A young receptionist, bottled blonde hair scraped back into a bobble, made a face at him as she glanced up. "You don't look like a fed," she said, scrutinising his face carefully, "you actually look kinda homeless"

Sam laughed, feigning confidence, "It's been a tough week. The bodies I need to see, those murders are causing us hell back at the office" he gave her a dazzling smile, hoping to win her over quickly before any more time was wasted. "You sure you're a fed?" she asked again.

"Last time I checked" he inclined his head in a joking way, playing the role, keeping his cool.

"Fine," she conceded, "I'll just buzz the doc; tell him you're coming down." Sam gave his thanks as the woman pressed an ancient intercom, which crackled to life.

"Head on down, the signs point the way" she nodded to him, indicating a blue sign on a wall. Sam walked briskly, taking the first left, then a set of stairs down to the basement of the building. It made sense, he supposed, to keep the bodies underground as much as possible. Finally, he reached more blue doors, which this time led into a clean morgue, with a wall full of coolers containing bodies and a couple of autopsy tables.

"Grab some gloves then boy, I'm gonna need a hand hauling this one out!" A slightly overweight elderly man shuffled into the room, dragging his feet. Sam caught the gloves that were hurled towards his face, a look of pure confusion lighting it up. Eyes wide, he obediently snapped on the latex gloves, following the coroner, he assumed, to the freezers opposite. The old guy was already sliding a drawer out, smoothly gliding forward until the shape of a body could be seen. "I'm agent Willows, I'm here to see-"

"Marjory George or Ronan George" the coroner supplied, "Yeah, I know, I know who you're lookin' for. You Fed's only show up for the weird ones." Sam smiled slightly, but then remembered himself.

"Yes, Is this them?"

"No, It's the friggin' pope" the old man grumbled. He didn't give Sam a chance to say anything before he uncovered the body, telling him "Ronan George, forty-three. Died last Tuesday of blunt force trauma to the skull, but the other wounds, the 'gutting' – was before the death" He glanced down at the battered corpse, "as for the writing, we got nothing. It's obviously a name, but who's – we just don't know. All we know is there's nobody in his family with that name"

The Winchester's eyes had gone wide when the body had been uncovered, as his heart rate increased and sweat formed in his clenched hands. Now, as the coroner looked expectantly up at him, he had to try and regain his composure. "That's interesting, doctor. Tell me; was there a second name in the other body?"

"Why yes, there was. It was-"

"I know what it was" Sam said suddenly. He nodded at the doctor briskly before heading out of the office "Thank you for your time, sir. We appreciate it." He was gone before the old man's protesting response was even formed, the blue door swaying closed behind him as he stormed out, heading straight for the parking lot. "Friggin' Feds" the old coroner grumbled, looking again at the body one more. Scrawled on Mr. George's bare chest, carved into the flesh with what looked like the assailants own fingernails, a shocking act of brutality, was the name 'Sam'.

* * *

Andrew McInlay was a young boy, just twelve, when a demon possessed his father. He was just twelve when he ran all night to get away, and his dad's dark eyes had followed his ever since. He was fifteen, a man by then, when he tracked down the shell that was once his father, but was now a demon's hovel, and shot him in the head. He was fifteen when he first killed his first demon, and his only family. The loss of innocence in an act so bloody and violent makes a man out of a person, brings them from the joy of childhood and into the brutal world of adults. In a hunter's life, the 'adult world' seems like a joke, not even half of the life they lead. Andrew – just Drew since, left his childhood for this hunting life; he could never go back. Now, at twenty-one, he was riding shotgun in an old impala, next to a man he barely knew, tracking down a demon. This Dean guy seemed alright and certainly lived up to his reputation. Plus, Garth trusted him, and the literal 'head-hunter' had helped him out a lot, so if he could help, Drew would. "So, what's the deal here?" he asked.

Dean Winchester turned to the kid next to him, taking in his short-cut dark hair and the thin scar along his cheek. Finally, deciding he really didn't have an option but to trust the kid, he started talking. He told him the story of the Winchesters: their mother's death to Sam's problem with demon blood. Afterwards, the kid looked shocked, if slightly impressed by their actions in stopping the apocalypse. "Nice bedtime story you got there" he replied dryly, the faintest trace of his Scottish accent hanging on the words.

"More like a living nightmare" Dean said.

"So what, we go after your brother now?"

"Yes."  
"What good will that do?" Drew asked, not seeing the sense in it. "If it is a trap like you think it is, you'll just be walking right on into it."

"That's why I brought you for back-up."

"That's not going to be any good, from what you've said about this demon, he's going to be tough to kill."

"Then what would you suggest, huh?" Dean got angry now, slamming his fist against the steering wheel, "cause if Sam's in trouble I'm not just leaving him alone."

"I'm not saying you should: I'm saying be smart about it."

"Well if you got any bright ideas, I'm all ears."

"I got a few: this demon might be a big-shot, but he's still just a demon, right?" Drew checked.

"Right" Dean confirmed.

"So you remember the bastard's name, Azazel. Why not just summon and trap him? It would get him away from your brother" the younger hunter suggested. Dean, impressed but not showing it, twisted to face him with a strange look on his face. "And what if that don't work? Then Sammy's alone against him and we're miles away."

"Then let me go after Sam, you stay here and try trapping it."

"No way," Dean said flat out, "No friggin' way I'm sitting on the sidelines while he's in trouble."

"But the trap's for you! It's you and your brother they want, what would be the point in getting you both there at the same time?" The boy asked, the frustration evident on his face. Dean had no answer, technically the plan made sense: one grabs Sam, the other distracts the demon. "We don't even know that Sam's in trouble yet" Dean eventually reminded him after a silence.

"But when we find out?" Drew questioned.

"Then we do what we have to" Dean agreed begrudgingly, "And if that means following your dumb plan, so be it." He shifted uncomfortably, turning on the radio decisively to drown out any further conversation. Talking didn't help; fixing things did.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

The George's house was cold when Sam entered, cutting through the police locks with his pocketknife before ducking into the crime scene. It was dark, so he pulled out a flashlight as switching on the lights would cause unwanted attention. Walking slowly but purposefully, he kept his guard up, clicking his piece from his belt and he checked the house was empty. Torch and gun raised, he made his way through the rooms, upstairs first, and then back down to the dining room, which he knew to be the crime scene. Apart from the missing bodies, it was exactly how it looked on the CCTV he'd been checking for days with Dean: couch overturned with obvious signs of struggle, blood spilled across the cream carpet and turning it crimson, the splattered message staining the wall. It looked like any other case they'd worked, and Sam tried to treat it the same, but the fact that yellow eyes had been there: killing people, maybe poisoning more – it make his skin crawl.

It was empty, no one around in that lonely house in the suburbs. The George family were the clean type: modern art hung on the whitewashed walls, fancy shelves held perfectly ordered books that looked mostly unread. The meretricious precision of it all was what he expected: dad's a fancy attorney in the city; mom had friends over, kids in a good school – just a show for the world to see a perfect little family. Sam was looking over the shelves, at family photos and awards, when he noticed a rug upturned at his feet. A bloody handprint marked its edge, so when he knelt to examine it, he saw a smudge of what he guessed was sulphur underneath. He brushed his fingertips gently against the substance and smelt it to check. "Definitely sulphur" he commented to no one as the rancid smell hit the back of his throat. Standing again, he started to wonder why he'd come. He'd had the sense to wait until nightfall, but being there now seemed pointless. There was nothing there to find, just ghosts and nightmares he thought he'd left behind. He'd just felt this overwhelming urge in his gut to come, dragging him in, unable to be fought off. Sam stood alone in the darkened house and sighed, turning his torch off. He rubbed his eyes angrily, the rings around them more prominent than ever.

From the darkness behind the hunter, a pair of yellow eyes opened from nowhere, gleaming maliciously in the blackness. And they had found their target. The younger Winchester: the boy with demon blood. They had known it would be him to come, and he was all they needed to reel in his big brother. The trap to encase the Winchesters was in motion: they wouldn't be a problem for much longer.

* * *

It was just before closing time when Dean and Drew arrived at the morgue. Dressed in suits quickly thrown on, they were waved straight through to the morgue itself by a blonde receptionist. Dean's tie was askew, his hair not slicked back as usual in his FBI alias, but desperate times called for careless covers.

"Not more Feds!" complained an elderly coroner as he looked up at them and groaned when they entered, "Have you got a sixth friggin' sense like the one this morning?"

"There was another guy here this morning?" Dean asked, hoping it was his brother, "Tall, brown hair, looked like hell?"

"Yeah, that's him" the man said gruffly, "freaked out when he saw the stiffs. A newbie?"

"Just show us the bodies" Drew suggested, as his new companion looked grave. Emotions always caused trouble in this business, he knew that, and Dean's attachment to his brother could blow their cover if they weren't cautious. The coroner answered, "Can't. The one I showed your guy was released this afternoon; I'm just finishing the paperwork on the other now."

Drew made a face of annoyance, "what about that then? You got pictures in this report?"

"Sure."

"Then we'll need to see a copy of that" Dean said, professional again. The old man shuffled over to the desk he was working at before the introduction, pulling out a brown file from the top if the stack of papers. Dean took it quickly, earning him a disgruntled look, and walked briskly from the office without another word. Drew glanced at the coroner awkwardly before following him. "Bleedin' feds" the Doctor cursed the organisation for the second time that day, and took a huge swig from a hip flask for good measure as the two shifty agents left.

The Winchester brother was sorting through the file as he walked, looking for the photographs, when Drew caught up. Finally, Dean found what he was looking for – and stopped dead in the middle of the hall. It was empty apart from Drew, who paused when he realized his friend had stopped, "Dean?" He got no answer from the silent hunter, who started at an autopsy photo with a haunted look etched upon his face. Like he'd seen a ghost. Because he was seeing a different corpse than Sam had, the other victim of the yellow eyed assailant. Another name, crude and bold, was scratched into the chest of Mrs. George. But it was not, as Sam had assumed, Dean's name written in blood. No, it was the name of another Winchester. Written in dead woman's blood, was another ghost from the past back to taunt them: it was the name 'John'.

* * *

Sam had his back to the demon as it attacked. He was standing in the George's living room when suddenly he was on the floor, something having hit the back of his head. Sensing a presence above him, he instinctively rolled to the left, narrowly avoiding a second blow from a bat, which instead cracked the floor where he had laid seconds ago. Twisting onto his back, slowed by the pain in his head clouding his vision, he could see his attacker. Yellow eyes: like a shadow, moved fast as lightning, was standing over Sam with his bat raised yet again. Thinking fast, Sam pulled his giant legs up to his chest and kicked out, pushing Yellow eyes backwards over the overturned couch. The demon fell from view, giving the hunter precious seconds to scramble to his feet and shake his head clear. He was unsteady on his feet, but now so was the demon, which jumped from behind the couch again to punch Sam in the face. The Winchester staggered backwards, regaining his footing and using the momentum to swing forwards and deliver his own blow to the demon's midsection, causing it to double over. After this, Sam grabbed the demons bowed head, bringing his knee up into its face. It fell back, landing on the ground and laying still. Thinking the initial threat was over; Sam moved forwards to look down on yellow eyes' still form. His eyes, turquoise in the low light, were cold as he looked upon the demon.

He was so distracted by the presence of the monster from his nightmares that he missed the quiet footsteps behind him. He never felt the blow coming as a second demon appeared and hit him over the head. Sam fell unconscious to the ground beside yellow eyes, and lay still.

* * *

"Dean" Drew followed after the older hunter, who'd sped off after dropping the file to the floor in the hallway. Drew had picked it up before following, and now the Winchester was quite a way ahead of him. Dean breezed through the doors, out into the parking lot speedily. "Dean!" The Winchester heard the kid calling him, chasing behind, but wasn't listening. _John_. His father. He wished it was his own name on that body, because he might be thinking rationally right now if it were. Those filthy freaks could do anything they wanted to him; he didn't care a bit – but his father? As soon as they brought John into this, it was family, and it was personal. And like hell itself, Dean raged right to where he knew they'd be. Because now he was on a war path; they were the targets. They might have Sam already. They might even have John, from the cryptic messages. So Dean, the soldier son, would save them.

"Dean, think about this-" Drew shouted after him, "Don't do what they want. Listen-"

"Summon the demon!" Dean ordered over his shoulder, as he jumped into the impala and started the engine.

"What?" the kid asked, obviously confused. He followed to the car, but as he tried to open the door, Dean clicked the locks shut from inside with a small shake of his head. "No" Drew said, banging the window with his palm, "No Dean, Listen. Let me in, you can't do this. Dean please."

"Summon it" Dean barked, pulling away. Drew banged the window with his hands again, but fell back as the car pulled away. He ran after it a few paces, yelling "Dean. DEAN!" But it was too late; the Winchester was gone, leaving him behind. "You stupid son of a bitch" Drew muttered. Dean was walking right into their trap. He looked down as he muttered in anger, and noticed his own battered backpack had been left on the road. _Summon it._ Drew had the materials to summon Azazel so the Winchester's could get away. It wasn't his plan, but it was the best they had. Cursing again, he grabbed his bag and started running down the emptied road. He couldn't very well summon a demon in the middle of the city. His best hope was to get to the outskirts: empty warehouses, storage units, old farms. But he had to get there first. So he ran, swiftly but a sustainable pace, hoping he could find somewhere in time. But time was not something they had a lot of; it was running out. Breathing heavily, Drew kept running.

* * *

"Wake up, Winchester" hissed a voice in Sam's ear, and he flinched awake. He groaned as a stab of pain flashed through his skull, blood flowing from the wound across his face and neck. He tried to move to wipe it away, but found his hands to be cuffed behind the chair he was slumped in. Eyes squinted in pain; the boy looked up to find two demons surveying him. One had yellow eyes. Sam scowled, hate and bitter rage twisting his sincere features into a new expression. "You" he said venomously. To his surprise, the demon's laughed. Confused, Sam watched their gleeful joy at his mistake, for demons laughing was a strange sight. "That's fantastic," laughed the second demon, "he still thinks you're Azazel."

"What?" asked Sam, more alert now, "but that's yellow eyes, I saw him."

"No, we're just the guys hired to catch you" This second demon was a jerk, frankly. He lounged on a table as he spoke to him, black eyes gleaming. The other demon, 'yellow eyes' looked considerably more nervous now and still had blood trickling from its nose from where Sam had beaten him. "Shut up, Lennie" yellow eyes warned his friend, "You're not the one they'll come after. I say we just leave him 'til the boss collects."

"Well the boss won't be collecting until the other one shows, so I say we have some fun" the second demon snarled, and yellow eyes flinched away. Several things clicked in Sam's mind at one, and his eyes widened with realisation. "You're not yellow eyes" he said to the demon.

"No he ain't, and he ain't the one you got to worry about" 'Lennie' said, standing now to approach the bound hunter. Lennie smiled a hooked grin more a grimace than an expression of joy. "Stupid hunters, jump right into trouble. Never heard of coloured contacts?" he laughed.

As if to back this up, the yellow eyed demon pulled something small from his left eye. When he looked at Sam again, the eye was the usual demon black. "This was a trap" Sam said, more a statement than a question. 'Yellow eyes' was not Azazel. Azazel was dead, but somebody else was playing Sam and his brother. "I thought this was meant to be the bright one?" Lennie sceptically said to yellow eyes, who shrugged.

"Why did you do this?" Sam asked.

"Didn't you boys hear?" Lennie grinned, "Hell has a hit out on you. Any demon that can catch you both gets a chunk outta Crowley's crown – a whole country to themselves. He must be desperate to get you if he's offering that, the guy really wants you dead."

"There's a hit out on us?"

"From the very top. Every demon in the country is after you boys now, you're never getting away."

"Dean won't come" Sam tried bravely, leaning against the back of his chair as Lennie approached again.

"Sure he will - we got you" the demon taunted.

"He won't, he'll work it out."

"Maybe" said Lennie, "maybe he would have if it weren't for the other little surprise we left him."

"What?" Sam demanded.

"You never did look at the other body, did you?" Lennie asked, before carrying on quickly, "You - like the ignorant hunter you are, assumed we left 'Dean' written on the other body. We didn't. We wrote" He smiled sinisterly at Sam, close to his face, "John." Sam's face changed instantly, from confidence to worry. His brow creased, skin lost its pallor, and eyes concerned. Lennie smiled again "Oh yes. You see, the boss had been watching you boys for a while now; he really wants you dead. He knows how to make you boys dance: Family."

"Why? Why does he want us dead?" Sam asked.

"You've messed up his plans too many times. So he learned your weakness"

"Dean won't fall for it" Sam said, trying to convince himself it was true. But he knew his brother: as soon as he saw the name John, Dean would be lost. "Of course he will" Lennie snarled, "Your brother, he's the self-sacrificing type. If we'd have written his name on that body, he'd have been alright: he wouldn't have cared" Sam flinched slightly at that. He knew Dean had always felt that way, that he was worth less than them, but it hurt Sam to know it. "But your daddy? Now we got him mad. So he's coming"

"And he's coming to kill you" Sam told him. Lennie's face contorted in brief rage, before a scary calm washed over it again.

"We'll see" was all that the demon said.

Sam smirked, "You don't know my brother."

"I think that I do"

"Then you'll know that he'll kill you" Sam said, sincere as ever. Lennie got angry again, fuming in the other man's face.

"Then let's give him a reason to" the demon smiled cruelly. Then he made a fist, punching Sam hard in the face for the first time. And he didn't stop there.

* * *

Drew stood, panting, in an empty barn on the outskirts of California. An hour had passed, filled with hard running; sweat stained his clothes and his breathing was uneven. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, so he resisted the urge to stop and catch his breath, pushing on. He pulled the necessary equipment from his battered backpack, working fast. In maybe twenty minutes, a devil's trap was etched on the floor in chalk, candles scattered around, and Drew stood with a huge black book in his arms. He looked around half-apprehensively. He hoped he was in time, of course he did, but if the freaking _Winchesters_ were worried about this demon, should he really be summoning it alone? Refusing to let thoughts like that take hold, he started the summoning chant hastily, the Latin rolling with ease off his tongue. Once the main phrases were done, all that was left was to name the demon, "Azazel."

Drew waited, expecting flames and fury. Or anything really. But nothing changed. The barn remained eerily silent, no demon came. It was impossible. A demon cannot resist this summoning; Azazel should have been ripped from where he was and trapped here. _So where the hell was he? _Unless it wasn't him. "Crap" Drew muttered: he was right; it was a trap. This Azazel the Winchesters hated so badly was long gone, whoever was after them - it wasn't him. Which meant Drew was useless, away from the action. He had started to grab his stuff, groaning inwardly at yet another run across the city to find the brothers, when he had another idea. "Gotcha" he muttered, starting the chant to summon a demon again. This time though, he said a different name at its conclusion.

A new demon, a young boy of about fifteen this time, appeared in the trap. He looked up quickly, like a caged animal, before his eyes rested on Drew and grew wide. The young hunter grinned, "Hey Joe, good to see you again."

"Drew – whatever it is, I don't know nothing, I swear" Joe the demon stood as far back in the trap as possible, pale and shaking like a leaf. He possessed a scrawny teenager at the moment, all pimples and hormones. He hated it. "Oh Joe, my boy, you don't even know what I want yet" Drew said, walking forwards towards the demon. Joe scuttled further back into the trap, holding out a hand in front of him as he spoke. "Stay back! Please don't come any closer, I don't know anything!"

"Joe, Joe, Joe – do you really expect me to believe that without _checking_?" Drew asked, malicious glint in his eyes. They'd been here before. 'Joe' got even paler, if it were possible, pleading now. Drew had caught him a couple years back, and had since used the spineless demon as an informant. Joe might not have been a threat big enough worth killing, but he heard enough to be useful. Information which could be got the easy way, or the hard way, and Drew had a few choice methods of getting Joe to talk.

"Please," Joe begged, "they'll kill me!"

"How is that my problem?" Drew asked coldly, advancing on the cornered demon again.

"No!" Joe cried out as Drew reached him, hands open over his head in fear, "fine, I'll tell you. I'll tell you! Just get back." Drew smiled, holding his own hands up in surrender, and walked backwards out of the trap. Joe looked up at the hunter with dead eyes, terrified, "please" he croaked out.

"Who is the demon impersonating the one with yellow eyes?" Drew asked.

"Hamish" Joe spluttered, withdrawn and broken, "his name is Hamish Gawn."

"Thank you for your service" Drew replied, wiping away a section of the trap with his foot. Joe vanished, leaving the hunter alone once more.

* * *

Dean arrived at the George's house as night fell outside, jumping out of the impala even before it had fully stopped. He ran quietly, feet skimming the pavement, before he got to the house with his gun drawn. The door's seal was broken; he guessed by Sam, so he pushed it open and entered silently. The house was quiet, but that didn't mean it was empty. Making his way around, he found out quickly the place was deserted, checking every room anyway. It looked how it did from the crime scene photo's except there was obvious signs of a newer fight in the living room. The couch had been shifted, and there were things strewn about that hadn't been before. Something had gone down there, he was sure of it. In the darkness, he almost missed the blood on the floor. He saw it just before he stepped on it, flicking on his flashlight and kneeling. It was another message written in blood. An address - an invitation; it screamed 'come and get us'. The demons were waiting for him because they knew he would come, because this message was written in blood. And the George's were long gone. Which meant one thing: this blood was Sam's.

Dean was on his feet and running back towards the car before he breathed again.

* * *

Sam drifted back to consciousness, nose bloody, eye swollen shut, everything aching; Lennie leant against the table in front of him, but his face broke into another smile when he saw Sam was awake. "Why, if it ain't sleeping beauty" the demon said.

"Bite me" Sam answered sluggishly, still suffering from the effects of the beating.

"As well as all using you as my personal punching bag? Now that would just be cruel" Lennie retorted calmly. The other demon, only one yellow eye now, was pacing anxiously in the background, twitchy as ever and sweating more than usual. "He should be here by now" he said to Lennie, biting his nail, a nervous tick of his.

"Calm yourself, Hamish. He's coming" Lennie, clearly the superior demon, said irritably. He watched the pacing Hamish from the corner of his eye; the pacing was making him uncomfortable. "Stop that"

"Sorry" Hamish stopped, "Are you sure we shouldn't just get rid of this one now?"

"Yes, we don't want to miss Dean's face when his little brother dies" Lennie said mockingly.

"You bastard" Sam spat at him.

"That's not polite," Lennie said, getting up and walking slowly over to Sam. He raised his hand and struck the Winchester across the jaw, sending Sam's head backwards. Flicking his hair from his face, Sam looked up defiantly at his torturer. Then, a smile spread across Sam's face, his teeth red with blood, "Neither is this."

"What?" was all Lennie had time to say before Dean appeared from the shadows to his right. The older Winchester punched Lennie straight in the face, sending the demon flying to the floor. "Sammy, you alright?" he asked, to which the younger brother winced and shrugged.

"Been better" Sam said. Dean took out Hamish with a few swift punches, in between which he pressed a pick into Sam's hand so his brother could start unlocking the handcuffs restraining him. Hamish, clearly the scattier of the two, was not very good in a fight. Plus, as far as Dean knew, he was yellow eyes. Although only one eye was yellow now - he didn't understand it. Dean hit him in the face, and the gut, until he crumpled to the ground.

By this time, Lennie was back on his feet, and that seething anger Sam had got a taste of was on show. "Winchesters" he muttered darkly, as Dean hit Hamish again. Lennie stalked across the room towards Dean, grabbing him by the shoulder and tearing him away; throwing across the room. Dean hit the wall, falling to the floor after, as the demon stood above him. He took the older brother by the collar, keeping a firm grip as he punched him in the face three or four times before letting him fall to the ground. Dean looked up; face bloody "That it?"

Lennie hit him again, before picking him up by the throat. Dean thrashed as the air was squeezed from his lungs, kicking the black eyed freak directly in the balls in this panic. The demon dropped him, and Dean managed to get in a few rib hits before he was attacked from behind again. Already disorientated by Lennie's attack, Dean was weakened, allowing Hamish to get the upper hand as the other demon took another shot.

Hamish kicked Dean's leg from under him, so the Winchester was left on his knees, and struck him heavily on the face. Then the demon raised a gun, a pistol, aimed at Dean's head. Through the blood dripping into his eyes, Dean saw his life ending here; looking into one yellow eye. Hamish's finger trembled on the finger – then, out of nowhere, he seemed to burn at the edges, disappearing in a haze of smoke. Dean's face broke into an expression of astonishment: the demon was just gone, like he'd been ripped awa- oh. "Good boy, Drew" he said aloud. The kid had come through, yanking yellow eyes from the fray.

But Lennie was still there. He had seen Hamish vanish after nearly finishing off the Winchester. His pistol had fallen to the ground. Dean Winchester picked it up, getting to his feet to face the other demon again. "Games up, bitch" he smirked, gun pointed at the demon. Lennie stood calmly, for watching the young hunter fight was fascinating. He could see why these boys had caused so much trouble. "Bullets can't kill me, and even if you do," Lennie said, emotionless. He was bleeding himself, anger and pain wracking his body; he spat blood to the floor "They'll still kill you."

Dean smiled, in his element here, in battle, "Haven't you heard? Hell has a hit out on us" he laughed, knowing that's exactly what these two demons had been doing, "But we're _the Winchesters_"

"-We'll be waiting" Sam finished for him, coming from behind Lennie and stabbing the demon in the back with their knife. It crackled red, as the demon fell. In his last few seconds, he realized he'd made the same mistake as they all had: underestimating the Winchesters. He'd tried to play games with them, to use their family weakness against them; the biggest mistake he could of. Lennie fell dead to the ground, as the two brothers looked on, covered in blood.

* * *

"Quit being such a baby" Dean scolded as Sam squirmed; nearly messing up the stitches Dean was closing his wounds with. They sat on the hood of the impala, medical kit laid out next to them. "There - done" Dean said, pulling the last stitch through and packing it away. Sam looked critically at the stitching, not straight like they would be in a hospital. But still, they served their purpose. He wouldn't bleed out. "Thanks" he muttered, wincing as he got up. A few hours later, the bruises of his encounter were starting to show. Dean too was bruised and battered, but he wasn't complaining. They were alive, yellow eyes wasn't back – things weren't so bad.

He was putting their kit in the trunk when another car approached. Drew got out. "Kid," Dean called to him, smiling genuinely "you did it."

Drew smiled wryly as he came closer, "Yeah, after you went running straight into a trap."

Dean held his hands up in the air, "Guilty as charged. I'm sorry, I'll never run off again – scout's honour" He crossed his fingers, laughing. He held a hand out to the younger hunter, who shook it good-naturedly, the grin that spread across the boys face reminding Dean just how young this kid was. "Just promise never to ask for my help again" Drew joked, and the Winchesters laughed.

"We owe you" Sam told him, "If you ever need anything."

"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill." Drew said with a curt nod, "So it wasn't your demon back?"

"No, fortunately" Sam explained, not wanting to talk further about their past.

"Then you should be careful" Drew warned, "That demon I summoned wasn't hard to kill, which makes me think this was just the beginning."

"He tell you anything?" Dean asked.

"Didn't ask" Drew admitted. Dean sent him a strange look, which luckily the young hunter didn't notice. He worried about the dark look in the young hunter's eyes. "Anyway, I'd better get going" Drew said. He shook hands with Sam, who thanked him again, and departed with the promise to call if he ever needed any help. As his taillights faded, the boys leaned against the hood again. "I like that kid" Dean commented.

"Sure saved our asses" Sam said. "You really came running because of dad?"

Dean's jaw tightened, "Family, Sam. They know it's our weakness." Sam nodded. They sat quietly for a while, the sun warm on their backs, reminding them they're alive. "You think they'll kill us this time?" the younger brother eventually asked.

"They'll have to catch us first" Dean said, "come on." They got into the car, seats moulded to fit them, even the car's smell familiar, and drove away. Hell had a hit out on them, which meant they were as good as dead. It was only a matter of time.

But the thing is, hell had tried to kill them before. So had heaven. And they were still alive, which counted for something. A song started playing on the radio, so Dean turned it up as Sam rolled down the window: the highway the only thing between them and the sky. It was their usual routine. Tomorrow, they'd find a new case, and they'd work it. They would fight monsters and win until the demon's caught up. The Winchesters sure as hell wouldn't give up easily, though. So they ran.


	2. Rest in pieces

'Rest in pieces'

Chris Panetti was your average guy. A mid-thirties Italian American guy living in Georgia: runs at the weekends, single but with a string of ex-girlfriends. Average; unimportant; nothing special. The only interesting thing ever to happen to him was his death.

It happened on a Thursday, and it was raining. He was home alone in his cramped apartment in the town where he lived. He was reading, but the blinds kept rattling against the window with the wind, so he got up to swing the window shut. Still, a chill ran down his spine as he turned away, breath coming out condensed like smoke. Going back to his book, a spy thriller, the young guy began reading again. Then a clatter sounded through the house, making its occupant flinch. Jumping to his feet, Chris saw that the window was open again. Frowning, he walked forwards purposefully, meaning to close it. But he fell before he reached the window, his arm falling through its open gap – just as it fell. Chris screamed as his arm was severed, blood gushing from the exposed stump. In this panic, he was careless – it was just bad luck that he fell, right? Just a coincidence that the bookcase fell too? That his legs were severed by the heavy bookcase, as was his other arm by a falling vase?

To normal people, this was just coincidence. But as the lights flickered over Chris Panetti's dead body, a deep laugh could be heard from the house itself. They found him the next day, underneath the bookcase which crushed his body, arms and legs detached. It got wrote off by the press as a freak accident, a tragedy. But when another man working in the town, this time a construction worker, fell into a machine also getting his arms and legs removed, rumours spread. They other workers on the site spoke of a laugh once more after their friend's death. One man even claimed to see a figure leaving the scene.

Long story short, people were getting killed in very weird, very specific ways in Hinesville, Georgia. The streetlamps were flickering again as ghost stories came to life – more real and bloody than ever.

* * *

SUPERNATURAL

* * *

The Saturday after Chris Panetti's death, an old impala rolled into town. Inside it sat two boys on the run, but they seemed comfortable. One sang along enthusiastically to Led Zeppelin's 'Ramble on' as they pulled into a cheap motel, while the other rolled his eyes and got out quickly. They paid for their room, hauling two duffels into the twin room, and set out their belongings: an assortment of knives, guns, darts, and spears. Plus a whole lot of books. Sam Winchester threw a paper onto a bed, claiming it as his own. "Two deaths in two days, Dean – there's a case here" he told his brother, who had just drove hundreds of miles and was tired. "Okay, there's a case here _in the morning_" Dean answered, pushing his duffel to the floor with a clunk and falling face first into his own bed. "I swear if you wake me up too early, there will be three deaths in three days, you understand?"

Sam laughed, holding his hands up, "alright, I get it. But I'm going to head down to the bar down the street, see what the locals are saying."

"Did you say bar?" Dean said, sitting up again, alert.

"Thought you were tired"

"Thought you were bellyaching about a case" Dean answered, grabbing his coat again, "let's go."

They walked out of the motel room, moving down the aisle towards their car again. "So, what do we know about this thing?" Dean asked Sam, their walking Google of information.

"Two guys in two days, both with their arms and legs missing"

"Ouch" Dean made a face, "we thinking vengeful spirit?"

"Most likely" answered Sam, "But we don't even know if the vics are connected yet – we'll have to talk to the families tomorrow"

"Alright" said Dean, "But those drinks first"

* * *

Sam sighed as his brother bought yet another drink at the bar, his own drink lying mostly untouched in front of him. He was on his second, Dean was on his seventh. He worried about his brother too much these days. Dean didn't really know why he was drinking that night. Since purgatory, he'd cut down on the alcohol: it had lost its buzz. Numbing his senses like that seemed pointless to him now. Nothing had been the same since purgatory, and probably would never be again. So, he ordered another whiskey and took a gulp, the amber liquid scorching his throat to remind him he was still real.

"Anything?" the older Winchester asked as he sat across from his brother, who looked brooding and silent, staring across at the bar. Sam shook himself, waking up. "So get this, I talked to a few construction workers who worked with the second vic, say he had no enemies – but all describe a 'deep, old laugh' at the time of his death" Sam relayed what he'd been told, to which his brother's face gained interest.

"Definitely a spirit then" Dean said, "now all we got to do is find out who."

"Which I guess means I'll be doing research on any violent deaths in this town tomorrow?"

"You got it" Dean grinned, "I'll be canvassing the family and checking the scenes."

"One day you'll get the boring job" Sam teased, but he smiled inwardly.

* * *

Sunday morning and the people of Hinesville were leaving church, coming out on droves, mournful for the two lost members of their community that had been commemorated that day. Much like flocks of sheep, they left in huddled groups, with families and friends leaving together. The sun was shining brightly, and nobody paid attention to the well-dressed man in a suit, leaving on his car as he waited for a Mrs. Jenkins to come out of the stone structure. Dean straightened his tie, cursing the searing heat and having to wear a monkey suit on a day like this. Covers were useful in finding out information and getting into places, but sometimes pretending to be FBI was just a pain in the ass.

"Mrs. Jenkins" he said, straightening and taking a few steps towards a pretty brunette who'd just walked out of the church. Mascara ran down her cheeks and she sniffled when she spoke. "I'm Agent Wilson with the Federal Authorities" Dean flashed his badge to her, "I need to ask you a few questions about your husband's death."

"Does it have to be now? The service has just finished" Mrs. Jenkins protested tearfully, clearly flustered and clutching her purse tighter to her chest, clearly a broken woman. "I'm sorry about the inconvenience ma'am, we just thought it would be easier to ask you a few questions here than arrange a formal interview" Dean smiled his compassionate smile, or a good imitation of one.

"Of course officer" her face blank, Mrs. Jenkins nodded, "what would you like to know?"

"Your husband Mark Jenkins died in a construction accident on Friday, is that correct?" Dean read from his file.

"Yes it is"

"And would you say that there were any unusual circumstances before or after his death?"

"Unusual?" Mrs. Jenkins, wife of the second victim, made a confused face.

"Cold spots, flickering lights, weird noises?" Dean prompted.

"Are you serious?" She asked in answer, not sure at all that the guy in front of her was entirely sane. He smiled apologetically and shrugged. "No, nothing-" she started, then stopped to think hard, "well, out electrics have been playing up, but what difference does it make? He didn't die at home."

"I know, we've just got to cover all our bases," Dean explained, "One more thing – do you know anything about the site your husband was working on?"

"They were building a truck stop at a crossroads just outside of town" Mrs. Jenkins said, eyes misty again as she thought of Mark on that last day, of him leaving for work and- she stopped the thought as she welled up. "A crossroads?" The agent asked, face suddenly grim.

"Yes, is it important?"

Dean tilted his head to the side, "everything matters in cases like these, ma'am."

* * *

"You got something?" Sam asked, answering the phone quickly as it rang, glad to take a break from the research. The morning was gone and he'd been filing through death certificates and articles for hours. His eyes hurt from computer glare; he swore he'd need glasses soon at this rate.

"Get this – Jenkins had been working building a truck stop – at a crossroads" Dean said, sounding distracted, and pretty angry. It was safe to say their history with demon deals had made him edgy. "So it wasn't a spirit, it was a deal?" Sam asked; his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Well, a hellhound could definitely do something like this"

"Yeah" Sam agreed: they both knew what hellhounds were capable of, "so what now, we checking the site?"

"I'll pick you up in twenty" Dean clicked off.

Sam started putting together his stuff quickly, knowing it would be pointless to stay there and do research if there was no spirit to find. He emptied his usual gun, checking the shaft was clear and reloading the revolver with special bullets they'd made. They were alloyed metal infused with holy water, which might not stop demons, but would sting them enough to slow them down. Gun loaded, he packed an extra two, one a rifle, for the trunk; making sure to pick up a few vials of holy water before he left. Planning, precision – that's how you stayed alive in this business. Sure, gut instinct and intuition helped, but being prepared had saved their necks more than once. He grabbed an extra pistol for Dean, a backup, and with a final glance around, left the room. The cheap motel door clicked shut behind him, and the lock would be crap under pressure, but he figured their stuff was safe. It was a nice town, but more importantly there had been no omens here for months. It was a demon-free zone as far as they could tell, so they should be alright. They'd handled more than enough hellhounds before, and even a spirit sounded like a walk in the park compared to their lives these past few years.

He was ready; a fight right now might help to release some of the pent up energy that had settled in his gut. This situation with the demons, being on the run and constantly anticipating an attack, it was enough to drive anyone up the wall. It would be good to be doing something again, to be out on a case helping people. Sam almost smiled to himself, and then realized he didn't have much to smile about.

* * *

The Winchester's arrived at the wrong crossroads half an hour later, getting out of their car just outside of town. There was a crossroads, but nothing was being built there, or looked ever to be. "What – are we lost?" Sam asked an equally bewildered Dean, who shrugged.

"Lady said they were building at a crossroads, I just followed the signs" he replied.

"Do you think there could be more than one crossroads in town?"

"I don't know" Dean answered, walking around to the trunk and pulling out a decade out of date, torn up map of America, "but I'm sure we can find out." Dean was still puzzling over that same map five minutes later, holding it upside down and scrutinising wavy blue lines in the wrong state when Sam appeared at his shoulder, grinning and holding up his phone. "There are four crossroads in town, we want the one four miles east" Sam grinned. The map app on his phone had found the information in about 30 seconds but watching Dean grow more and more frustrated while flapping the map around was just too amusing to miss. "I hate technology" Dean declared, throwing the map to the dust and walking back around to the front of the car as Sam contained a laugh.

* * *

"Looks like we got the right place this time" Sam commented as they pulled up at the second crossroads, this time an obvious construction site: high metal frames swayed in the wind, white tarp covered machines, and crime scene tape fenced in the area. "Shut up" Dean reminded him, jumping out of the car before his brother had time to laugh or make another comment. Truth was, he didn't really mind at all – it was good to hear Sammy laughing.

An officer posted on the perimeter approached them, and on cue they pulled their FBI badges in sync. "Hello officer, I'm Agent Parks and this is Agent Wilson, we're with the FBI" Sam said as way of introduction. The man stared at their badges for a moment then nodded stiffly at them, "What can I do for you, agents?"

"We're investigation the death here a few days ago, we just need to check the scene" Sam supplied.

"You check that through with the sheriff?" the officer asked, mistrustful.

"Well we were just heading into town when we stopped off, we're going to see the sheriff straight away afterwards and we thought we'd clear it with him then" Dean smiled insincerely, a trait he'd picked up over the years.

"I think you boys had better see the sheriff first" the officer said. Before he spoke back, Dean glanced around the site, surprised to notice the officer was patrolling alone. Instantly suspicious, his eyes narrowed, as his jaw clicked into a line. Shrugging self-depreciatively, he feigned agreement, "Fine then, you don't mind If I get a drink before 'office hours' do you?" He asked, pulling out his hip flask and holding it questioningly. Sam sent him a look, which he ignored. "No, I guess not" the cop replied evenly, shifting uncomfortably. Dean smiled in a thankful imitation, taking a sip from the liquid inside. Then, purposefully, Dean tripped and splashed the contents on the cop. "What the hella you doing? You an idiot?" the annoyed, dripping cop yelled, dabbing his soaking clothes. He looked at the agent furiously, "If you don't mind, I got a job to do – and now a shirt to change." With this the considerably pissed off patrol officer departed, mumbling insults underneath his breath as he stormed away.

Sam made a questioning face at Dean, "holy water?"

"Thought he looked shifty" the older brother explained.

"Well I guess we'd better go see the sheriff, doesn't look like we're getting in now"

"Better safe than dead" Dean said with a tilt of his head, walking back towards the impala. They sped off back towards town, with the full intention of seeing the sheriff as soon as possible. But that was not to be.

* * *

Sheriff Matthews wasn't a good man: he was a drunk and compulsive liar, but he was a respected sheriff. He sat in his office that evening with a glass of scotch; the phone unhooked and was content in lazing away another Sunday night. There was nothing much ever happening round those parts anyway. He was lucky, he'd always thought, to have found a town with so little crime to work in: it make his high-paid job easy; a typical fat cat of the system. Matthews had money in abundance that he hoarded or spent on indulging his habits, but he worked little for what he was paid. He saw himself as a success; others saw him as a languorous slug on society. Despite that, he was respected: he had once been a better sheriff and knew the law book to a T; he could convict anyone of practically anything. This meant what few convicts they had stayed behind bars, and those innocent of petty crimes were let off or judged fairly.

He lived this way until he died, alone and in luxury. He was sitting in his office, feet propped up on the desk, when the lights above his head began flickering. They flared on and off, causing him to hop to his feet to check the fuse. The station was mostly empty: it was a Sunday night; some had taken a day's leave for the services for those poor dead folk, only a few officers remained pushing paper. He wandered past them, headed for the cramped janitor's closet at the back of the building. The noises of life faded to a dull hum, but he did not notice, for he was consumed with a sudden cold that attracted all of his attention. He shivered, wishing he wore a coat; confused of the turn in weather in the usually warm time of year. The handle of the Janitor's closet was frozen to the touch, and he jerked his hand back when it came into contact with the metal, wincing. Face a mixture of confusion and pain; he shouldered the door open, reaching for the dusty fuse box in the corner.

The door clicked behind him. He wheeled round to darkness and found the door would not budge. Desperation kicked in, as he pounded on the door with balled up fists, calling out for help until his throat cracked: kicking; screaming; cursing. The Sheriff was in fact so preoccupied that he missed the approach of the man until he was right behind him. Then, as the heat dropped again, he old policemen turned to find a guy standing behind him in the dimness. The man was grey in colour, not the whiteness associated stereotypically with ghosts, more lacking of life than dead. He wore a hooked grin with a manic glint in deceased eyes, but it was the scars that caught Sheriff Matthew's attention. His head looked to have been removed at some point, as did his arms and legs. Red cut lines jagged and ripped: not clean quick cuts but the harsh tearing apart of a body. They looked painful. The man stood still, one arm raised, and in that arm was a sharp piece of metal.

The Sheriff did not talk until he screamed; there was no time to recover from the shock. The ghost wielded his weapon with precision, using the blunt force to slice first one arm, then the next, before detaching both legs of the old man. The Sheriff was dead, his eyes fixed in a permanent state of fear as he lay on the floor of the closet, arms and legs scattered around him as his blood slowly pooled outwards, until it stained the floor and surrounded him. The ghost stood above him, pleased with his work. He walked out of the dusty closet, walking through the blood but leaving no footprints behind.

* * *

Sam and Dean arrived to chaos. It was kind of their MO by now. Police cars were scattered around the station, which wasn't unusual: but the flashing blue lights and crime scene tape was. The brothers exited the car quickly, exchanging looks as they made their way towards the nearest officer. They flipped their badges with serious faces, scanning the scene behind the cop on the border quickly. "We need to speak to the sheriff" Dean stated.

"No can do, boys" answered a mustached cop somberly "he just bit it."

"He's dead?" asked Sam, face a picture of bewilderment.

"Yeah, it's a nasty business. You boys will want the deputy" the cop said kindly, "go ahead, be sure to show your badges to anyone who asks. Ask for Deputy Stone." They thanked the cop, who lifted the tape for them to duck under, and carried on through the unfolding chaos. As they reached the front doors, two medics began wheeling out a body bag. "Just one second" Dean held up a hand to stop them, "I'm Agent Wilson, this is my partner Agent Parks. Is this the Sheriff?"

"Um, yeah it is, Sir" stuttered a young medic, barely out of med school and in awe of the agents.

"Can we just-" Dean motioned with his hand for them to uncover the body, which the stuttering medic did instantly while fiercely nodding. He unzipped the black bag, revealing a grotesquely mutilated corpse: the former sheriff. His arms and legs were clean off. Dean whistled, "That's something alright. Any idea what happened?"

"Until the coroner performs an autopsy there's nothing official, but uh, the wounds are clean cut, so it was something sharp. There were bits of metal in some of them" the young medic pointed to the severed arm, "It was violent, I can tell you that."

"This was no accident" said Sam, as they nodded at the medics and wandered away. The body was downright sickening; such mutilation was common in their job, but not what they had expected from the visit. "No," Dean agreed, "and it's definitely not hellhounds. Those wounds are too clean: to precise – the dogs would've torn him apart" he shuddered.

"So we're back full circle" commented Sam, "vengeful spirit."

* * *

"Deputy Stone?" Sam asked, holding out a hand to a man inside the station. He was young for a deputy, maybe mid thirties, with crinkled eyes from laughter and a set of moral views that remained uncompromised. Unlike his deceased boss, he was a good man. A father, an honest cop who valued the principles the law held up. He turned to the sharply dressed officials with a confused but not hostile expression. "Yes that's me, son" he answered.

"We're Agents Parks and Wilson with the FBI, deputy – or should that be sheriff now?" Sam smiled in a hopeful manner, wanting to get on the good side of the new boss in town.

"I don't even know myself yet" the deputy half-laughed, "how can I help you?"

"We were in town investigating the other deaths; we were just headed over to meet with the sheriff when his 'accident' occurred" Dean provided, adding extra doubtful exaggeration on 'accident'. The new sheriff nodded as he spoke. "Well, I've seen enough over the years, and this was no accident. The Sheriff was hacked to death – we got a murderer on our hands" the Deputy sighed, "not a good time to take over."

"But the other deaths are those still being treated as accidents?" Dean asked, "Is there nothing at all that connects these three deaths?"

"Not that we can tell at this stage, though the Sheriff was working a lead before. . ." the deputy trailed off, "well, we never heard back from him. Maybe he found something"

"What was he working on?" Sam took over the questioning, genuine interest sparking.

"An uh, 'unusual' piece of evidence from the construction site – they found an arm buried there. Just a skeleton, mind: some ancient thing. Probably nothing" the deputy shrugged as the Winchesters exchanged knowing looks.

"Thank you for your time, Deputy. We'll leave you to it now, you must be busy" Dean nodded to the scene behind, and the Deputy smiled appreciatively before leaving to try and sort out the mess the Sheriff had left. He hoped those agents had a clue what was going on, because he had been thrown in at the deep end.

* * *

"So what we thinking: break into the station, burn the bones tonight?" Dean asked while lying with his arms crossed behind his head in their motel room. Sam sat slumped on the table, but rolled his eyes when his brother spoke. "The Sheriff died a few hours ago: the place will be crawling with police tonight. We can't break in _and_ burn the bones _and_ not get caught with all that going on" Sam answered.

"So what?" asked Dean, "we let some other poor bastard get ripped while we lie low?"

"No, of course not. I'll start looking through records, find out who this is" Sam answered, pulling his laptop from his brown backpack. He clicked the lid open, blinking as the bright light emitted burned his eyes. They were tired, sleep deprived eyes. "Fine" agreed Dean, "but I don't like this. Something's off about this one."

"Well, that's not our biggest problem. We have an arm, but where's the rest of the body?" Sam pointed out the case-breaker, shunning Dean to silence. After an hour or two, the older Winchester fell into a restless sleep on his side of the room, as Sam continued scrolling for files. Dean would feel guilty for Sam not sleeping when he woke, and would most likely make up for it by driving all the way to wherever they went next, letting Sam sleep on the journey. Not that his sleep was all that refreshing.

Sam sat at the table; elbows cramped into his size as his huge formed failed to fit onto the small area. Research was dull sometimes, but it was his job in their team. He scrolled through endless death reports and arrest papers, looking for something within the last century. Nothing. At 1880 he stopped, sighing as he rubbed his face. Reminding himself they had a job to do, he opened a warm beer and began sipping every decade or so in records. In three hours, he had finished four beers and covered until 1700. By this time, he pretty much hated the guts of every dead person in that town. Across the room, Dean had begun moaning in his sleep, flinching every few minutes. Sweat soaked his sheets as they twisted around clamped fists, eyes scrunched shut. Sam looked over, worried so much about his big brother. The nightmares had started again after Purgatory, although Dean thought he had hidden it; they hadn't been this bad since he was a kid. He slept in his own room at the bunker, so had hoped Sam wouldn't notice, and drank to dull the effects while they were out on a case. But eventually, they broke through the haze of the alcohol, and nights like this occurred. Sam knew. It killed him to see his brother this way; a wreck. The worst part was Sam had no idea anymore what riddled Dean's nightmares. So much crap had happened; it was a miracle either of them slept at all. Still, on nights like these it hurt to watch, like a constant ache, he felt his brother's pain.

Turning back to his computer with a face lit up with melancholy, Sam returned to the simple life of research and facts. In this time where all that counted was finding the information, he was the best because it wasn't emotional: it was cold facts, therefore they could never hurt him. An hour later, he found the right result. A Henry Yalken: murderer and all-around psychopath from 1673. He killed five women before they caught him, but it was his manner of death that revealed him as their ghost – he was torn apart by horses, an unusual punishment reserved for the worst of sinners. His arms and legs were ripped off. Then, to add insult to injury, they buried each of the severed limbs at one of the crossroads surrounding town. The arms in south and north: the legs in east and west. It was written on the file that they hoped his remains would 'purify' all that crossed them to enter the town. He was their guy, no doubt. Pleased at the progress, Sam allowed himself a smile. Their job was easy now, burn the remains at the crossroads, skip town, repeat.

* * *

Dean had grumbled half-heartedly at being woken, determined to keep up appearances for Sam. So he complained then Sam pretended to remain oblivious. They were driving towards the southern crossroads, considering the arm was found at a construction site at the northern one. It was late, maybe three in the morning; night had full hold over the land. Stars dimly lit their way, but the impala's headlights shone out like a torch to illuminate the crossroads when they got there. They left the key in the ignition, the lights staying on, better than any other source for shedding light. Shovels dragged from the trunk, they stood at a crossroads, a sense of foreboding settling between them.

"Crossroads, huh?" muttered Dean.

"Could there be a worse sign?" laughed Sam, "you dig: I'll cover you in case any demons show up." Dean nodded before he struck down, pulling the first pack of dirt free. The work was dirty after that, but at least it was quick, but in twenty minutes, they hit a small metal box. "Found something" Dean called to Sam, who turned from his post facing outwards and met his brother at the hole. They cracked open the tin box, brown with age, and found inside a picture of the first victim. "Guy made a deal?" Sam mused.

"And it got cashed in early" Dean finished. "He must have disturbed the bones underneath."

"Well, put that thing away before we cause any trouble" Sam reminded him, knowing every crossroads demon would be on high alert at the minute. And they were all after them. Dean tilted his head in acknowledgement, putting the box on the ground and shovelling a few more handfuls of dirt before the arm bones were revealed. Standing, the brothers now exchanged raised-eyebrows looks. The usual business, right? Salt and burn: bye bye one quarter of this spirit.

Sam had the gasoline, Dean the salt, and within seconds the arm bones were coated. With a shrug, a match was tossed into the shallow hole, setting its contents alight. The boys watched the flames leap and lick at the bones, which corkscrewed and cracked with the heat. Nothing was unusual until the scream. "What the-" Dean jumped back, holding one arm in front of his brother, an instinctive attempt to protect him. The ghost appeared at the edge of the crossroads in all its greying glory, arm on fire as it screeched in pain. The burning bones flared out, falling to ash, and the ghost in front of them attacked. It was as if only part of him was gone: he looked faded at the edges, weakened. There were only three parts of him left. So desperation now fuelled this ghost, who staggered, arms aloft, towards the Winchesters. "Go" Dean ordered, shoving Sam in front of him, towards the car. The younger Winchester reached the door, covering his brother as Dean started the car. A salt bullet sent at the ghost dissolved it, scattered like smoke onto the breeze. But he would be back, and soon, so Sam jumped into the car and they sped off. He whipped his head round to check if they were being followed, but the road was dark and empty. Sam's hair flicked over his shoulder as he looked back. "What _was_ that?" was all he could get out.

"I have no idea" Dean answered, focused on driving away as fast as possible, "but we need to burn the other bones. Now."

"Is this what happens when there's more than one body part? They fade as each one goes?" Sam asked in a slightly panicked tone, as frankly, that was creepy as hell. The thought of fading that way, and the ghost must know it, wasn't a good thought. "I really don't know, man. I just know we have a pissed off, burning, homicidal, slowly blurring ghost on our tails: so we need to burn the rest quickly" Dean answered.

"Agreed" murmured Sam in return. They shot off to the eastern crossroads, knowing the ghost could be waiting there for them. If he knew they were coming after him, he'd come for them, too. Pulling up at the crossroads, the brothers were out of the car instantly: without a word, they both knew what to do. Dean started shovelling the dirt away, Sam covered him. They were a team: a perfectly working unit of instinct and training whenever they were together and danger was near. It was when they were at their best.

Dean was halfway done when the ghost made his first appearance, materialising at the edge of the circle with his metal weapon and sinister grin. Sam aimed with his rifle, taking a shot and missing. The ghost vanished, so Sam span around wildly, searching for him. It came out of nowhere, a fraction behind Dean with his weapon ready. Sam reacted quickly, his first instinct always to protect his brother, shooting without needing to aim, sending the ghost to oblivion. The hit sent him back to his origin, but he'd be back soon. Dean had looked up sharply at the shot, covering his head with his hands, and now he met his brother's eye. He nodded his thanks, but they both knew they had to move quicker.

The bone, this time a leg, fully uncovered, they set to work salting it. Once it was coated, a match was lit; gasoline squirted, and the bone went up like a firework. The brother's paused only a few minutes to ensure the job was done, but the ghost did not return. In fact, it was screeching in pain far away as more of him faded. Now, he was barely visible; a shadow.

Crossroads three: the other leg. Dean dug, Sam watched, but nothing came out from the shadows. They expected something, another appearance from the spirit, but it was noticeably uneventful. The leg bone crisped up nicely, burning to ashes in a few minutes, wiping out more of the madman. Afterwards, as they sat side by side in the car, both knew there must be a reason for this. There was just the bone at the police station left. Dawn was breaking overheard. Dirty and tired, they drove towards a home run. "How are we going to do this?" Sam asked. There was no subtle way around it: the bones had to be burnt – in a station full of police officers where a sheriff had been killed the night before. It wasn't ever going to be easy. "Get in, burn 'em, run" Dean said, "There's no other way." Sam agreed, but they were running a high risk of getting arrested. And considering they were legally dead, that might cause an issue. "You think he's waiting for us?" Sam asked. It was quite obvious that the ghost was, why else wouldn't he have shown up before? He was protecting the only other bone he knew they'd go to. Dean said nothing, and before long they were pulling up at the station.

* * *

Deputy Stone was sitting in the evidence lockup, hands over his tired face, when a crash shook the room. He was alone in there, avoiding the chaos outside; where crime scene analysts and detectives looked over the scene of Sheriff Matthew's death. He had been officially declared the new Sheriff at around 1am the night before. A big responsibility for a young man: especially one who preferred field work and solving crimes to pushing paper at the office. And that's all being Sheriff was: paperwork and headaches.

The noise came from the far locker, so getting to his feet, the Deputy made his way across. He pulled his weapon as he walked, holding it at arms height. When he reached the locker, he saw its contents were strewn about, but that one box in particular had been opened. "What the-" he started, but was cut short when a dark man appeared in the corner of the room. The man looked less than whole somehow. He was dressed strangely too, in outdated clothing, like an old photograph. In his hand was a sharp metal stick. The Deputy held his weapon ready, for there was something definitely wrong about this man. "Who are you?" he demanded, but the intruder remained stoically silent. Then, with a speed that could only be described as inhuman, the intruder sprang across the room, brining his metal weapon down upon the Deputies temple. He fell, firing his gun once at the attackers gut. The ghost merely looked down at the wound, then back up with a cruel smile. Now the Deputy was afraid, scrabbling back on his hands until he could get to his feet. The man had moved to attack again, when a bullet ripped through his chest, and he faded to nothingness, like sand. The Deputy looked up just as those two Feds entered the room, the one with long hair holding a rifle in his hands, which he promptly clicked to empty and reload.

"What's going on?" asked the Deputy, holding onto the edge of the table, for his legs seemed about to give out.

"It's a long story, sir" Sam answered; he nodded to Dean "better move fast." The other Agent set to work quickly, sifting through the overturned evidence boxes, searching for the remains. "That's not good enough" replied the Deputy, raising his firearm again, this time aimed at the men who he was pretty sure weren't agents by now. "Woah, woah. Okay, we'll explain" Sam said, holding his hands up, palms open. He looked quickly to his unarmed brother, not wanting to get either of them shot. "What you just saw was a spirit" he said, and the Deputy scoffed, "well, how else would you explain what you just saw?" Sam concluded, an eyebrow raised sceptically.

"A hallucination - a madman, not a spirit" said the Deputy, but he didn't sound sure. After a moment, seeing the honesty in the man's eyes, he lowered his gun. Whether it was true or not was disputable, but this man believed what he was saying at the very least. "We need to find those bones you found at the first crime scene" Dean said. He was having no luck sorting through the mess.

"Why?" the Deputy asked.

"Spirits attach themselves to things on earth – that's how they come back. It could be remains, or an object that was important to them. Long story short: you destroy the object, their leash breaks and they leave" Dean explained.

"You're going to destroy the remains"

"Yep" Dean nodded, "so where are they?"

"They were in here, file 20073" the Deputy said, moving forward to the table. On the floor nearby was the box it should have been in, so he pulled it up. The file was there, and he broke the red seal, spilling a dusty collection of bones onto the table. "Thank you" Sam said, just as the spirit appeared behind him. The Deputy called out a warning and Sam wheeled round, taking a shot – which lodged into the wall behind them. "Where'd he go?" the Deputy asked, glancing suspiciously at everything surrounding them. "Hurry up, Dean" Sam said, and instantly Dean was moving again, salt being tipped over the bones without holding back. Then went the gasoline, earning them a very strange look from the Sherrif. The ghost appeared again just as Dean lit the match, grabbing him and throwing him across the room. "Dean!" Sam called, shooting angrily at the ghost, as did the Deputy. The new Sheriff, stepping into the role at this moment, stepped forwards and tried booting the ghost in the chest.

It didn't work, naturally. The Deputies boot went right through the sprit, looking up fearfully at the dead face after, "crap." The spirit picked him up by the collar, holding him in the air, and grinning manically. "Hey!" Sam called from across the room, where he held a match above the bones, "you need a time out." The match dropped, its tiny flame dying then igniting when it hit the gasoline, growing to an inferno. The ghost dropped the Deputy, who staggered back, then watched in awe as the spirit burned, screaming as he finally disappeared, consumed by fire and rage. Then, as the spirit vanished, the red flames died down, leaving them alone in the room again. Sam helped Dean to his feet, and then they turned to the dumbstruck police officer. "So, spirits huh?" the Deputy said, turning to the Winchesters.

"Yes, Deputy Stone – afraid so" answered Sam.

The young officer picked up his hat, which had fallen to the floor, dusted it, and placed it atop his head, "That's Sheriff Stone."

* * *

The Winchesters walked slowly through town a few hours later, heading back to the motel and their car. The Sheriff had helped them find the back door of the station and leave quietly earlier; he took the fall for the 'accidental fire' which caused all the mayhem. He would keep their secret, as others had before. So, after a junk food binge at a local diner, they were leaving town again.

"Good thing we didn't run into any demons" Sam commented as they walked, side by side, down the street. They kept a leisurely pace, no need to run or move fast: just two brothers walking and talking. "Yeah" Dean agreed humourlessly, "Lucky."

"You think they're still after us?" Sam was not put off by his brother's lack of optimism; he knew Dean was just tired and cranky. But he'd snap out of it soon. He always did.

"Probably," Dean said, and then smiled a little, "something usually is though"

"Yeah" Sam agreed with a laugh of his own. Their lives pretty much ran around whatever was after them next. And they were still alive, which counted for something. "You heard anything from Cas?" Sam finally asked a subject they had been avoiding for weeks, thinking their angel might have some inside information to help. "No, the last few months - he's been . . ." Dean trailed off with a sigh.

"What?"

"Evasive" Dean said, looking away slightly to hide the worry, "there's something up with him. Something he won't talk about. Ever since he lost his grace he hasn't been the same." It hurt him, the past few months. Cas had started cutting him out, not stopping by as often as he used to and when he did, he was so_ quiet_. There was something on the fallen angel's mind, and Dean could tell – he just couldn't understand why Cas wouldn't talk to him. He thought they'd know each other long enough now that Cas trusted him. He guessed he was wrong. Dean just wished he could help, because the last time he saw Castiel; it seemed so long ago now, the angel's eyes looked so sad. Cas never cried, he knew that, but the look of sorrow in his gaze the last time they had met was worse than any expression of anguish he had ever seen. That look had killed him inside, and all he wanted to do was reach out and tell Cas things would be okay. But if he didn't even know what was wrong, how could he do that?

"Wait – have you talked to him since hell put a hit out on us? Does he know about that?" Sam turned more to face him, trying to catch is brother's eye. "No," Dean admitted, "I've been praying to him, but we know that doesn't work anymore-"

"You still pray to him?" Sam cut in, looking genuinely surprised as he watched his brother, eyebrows angled questioningly. Dean looked sheepish and looked down at his shuffling feet, "What? It doesn't hurt nobody."

"It's hurting you!" Sam pointed out, as he knew that expression all too well. When Dean stayed stoically silent, mournful, Sam's face softened, "You know Cas, he'll be here eventually"

"We need him now"

"We always need him" Sam reminded him, "and he always comes. Give him time"

They kept walking, the sky above like spilled ink. The streets were long and grey, the lights faded. Another town saved. Back at the motel, they packed up and left: walking away without any fuss, or thanks. Just the next case and the road ahead. They never looked back though, not to where they'd come or what they'd left behind.

And they fought. Two brothers against the world – who'd take that bet?


	3. Spilled Ink

'Spilled Ink'

Another Friday night, another drunk middle-aged man getting a dumb tattoo. They got it at Rosemary's tattoo parlour all the time: the people working there made jokes about the losers who showed up smelling of beer and got things they'd regret. It was the same that night, when forty eight year old Martin Capelin stumbled out of Rosemary's. He meandered about, tripping over his own feet as he left the shop, shoulder still burning from the needle. He would be so cool at work on Monday, the guys would love this: it was all just a bid to boost his ego. A mid-life crisis type thing: get a tattoo, feel twenty again - people did it all the time.

Martin wandered, falling about all over the shop, into a short-cut back alley on his way home. He lived alone in a crapped out flat on the wrong side of the tracks. The alley wasn't lit very well: there were no streetlamps to show the way through. Dumpsters boxed in the path, blocking the graffiti-filled walls, but they seemed unused, as several feet of assorted rubbish littered the concrete. He old guy fell into one, patting it affectionately and giggling before carrying on his way. His jacket sleeve was still pulled up, leaving his new body modification on show. A flaming axe - real original. Something he would definitely regret in the morning.

Still, the alcohol warming his blood was enough to slur his senses presently, and he felt awesome. He didn't see it coming. A faint glow was emitted from the far end of the alley, getting brighter as it got closer to its target. As the light got blinding, Martin turned, dazed and holding a hand to cover his eyes. The axe was on fire and flying through the air straight towards him. He had only the time for a single scream before it hit his mark, embedding itself in his chest with a sickening crunch and sending him into the nearest dumpster. He was impaled, stuck in the yellow plastic, as his blood dripped from the axe, and from his mouth, onto the floor. The lines of the drawing branded on his arm glowed for a split second, before returning to their usual colours, just an ordinary tattoo once more.

* * *

SUPERNATURAL

* * *

"Think this could be one of ours?" Just back from a supply run, Sam dropped the paper he'd been reading onto the table in front of Dean, who gulped the remainder of his coffee down. Picking up the paper, he scanned the article, his eyes darting across the words. It was a story about a death out in Atlanta, some guy being impaled with an axe in an alley. "Well it sure is strange, but it could just be some wacko murderer" Dean said, tossing the paper aside.

"That's what I thought" Sam said, sitting opposite his brother and leaning on his elbows, "so I did some more digging."

"Find anything weird?"

"Always do" commented Sam. "So get this: he had a tattoo just before he died – of a flaming axe, and they found kerosene on the axe that stuck him, like it had been set on fire."

Dean made a face, tilting his head slightly, "It's worth a run out."

* * *

A long drive later, many miles between them and the bunker, the two brothers arrived in Atlanta. It was a big city, a cesspool of sin and crime, a playground for any would-be killer. A cheap motel room beckoned, so the Winchesters succumbed to the effects of a busy day, collapsing on the twin beds in the small room. They didn't sleep much, but there wasn't much that could be done before morning, so they tried to rest. Without any alcohol to numb it, Dean's nightmares returned, twisting his mind as he attempted to sleep. Sam listened on, an ache all too familiar in his chest, as the night was gradually erased by the dawn outside. So much for sleeping.

They ate a speedy breakfast of bagels and coffee before pulling on their suits at the motel, their usual FBI disguises useful in this case. Sam left his hair long, running a comb quickly through it, but Dean gelled his back slightly, aiming for a professional look. Sam had his favourite black suit on that day; for it was a beautiful morning and things were looking up. He tightened his green tie which brought out his eyes, and seemed pleased with the effect. He looked like any other Fed: well dressed, professional – not like a man on the run from hell. Opposite, Dean finished fixing his own tie above a navy suit, and they were ready. Covers were vital to their operation: the Winchesters had officially died a few years ago after a pair of leviathan jacked their bodies and went on a killing spree. They wanted the authorities to keep believing that. Plus, without their disguises, breaking into crimes scenes would be a whole lot more difficult.

Pulling up a block away from the alley, as the surrounding area was too jammed with cop cars to get closer, they strolled towards the scene. As they reached the tape, an officer appeared on cue to ask who they were. "Agents Ward and Mill with the FBI" Dean said, as they flipped their badges. The officer seemed to accept this, so shouted over the lead detective on the case to speak to the agents. They walked just inside the tape when a tall man shook their hands, "I'm detective Stevenson. How can we help the federal authorities today?" He had a sarcastic tone, annoyed the feds were trying to take over his case. Dean introduced them under their aliases again, and explained that they just needed to take a look around. "Fine, just don't touch anything, alright?" the detective said.

"Sure thing, if we could also get a copy of the coronary reports?" Sam asked.

"Ask Jim Barnes, the beat cop. He'll be around" the detective replied dryly, "If there was nothing else, _I've_ got work to do." With this, he stormed away, sweeping off dramatically without giving them a chance to say another word. "We'll be in contact if we need anything else" Dean called after him, but he was ignored. The detective climbed into a smooth blue car, some sort of hybrid; a real flashy thing, and was gone. Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, a silent 'what the hell has that dick got on his shoulder?' look, to which his brother shrugged in response.

* * *

The scene was well lit now in the morning light, and police officers taking photos and measurements scattered around, all hard at work. The hot-shot detective, hoping for a promotion, had screamed at them all to work fast and 'get your dumbass, low paid jobs done' or he'd fire them. They all hated that asshole. The Fed's seemed nicer, or at least more professional, wandering round the edge of the crime scene before examining the body just before it was removed. Sam crouched next to the impaled corpse, taking in the axe foremost. It looked like a movie prop, frankly, like something you'd see in a cartoon with a curved blade and patterned handle. They had seen enough real axes to know that this was unusual, as not only did it look fake, but it actually worked. The blade should have unbalanced the whole thing as it was too big for the handle, but to have impaled Mr. Capelin as it had, it must have been efficient in its task. It made no sense. "That thing shouldn't work" Dean hissed in his brother's ear, eyeing the axe suspiciously. In purgatory, an axe had been his weapon. But a real axe, made of tree bark with a properly balanced blade, not this phony thing. "The mechanics is all wrong" Sam agreed, "but it was obviously what made these wounds."

"So something must be funny about it. Spirits might have something like that from the old days"

"Like an executioners axe?" Sam mused thoughtfully, to which his brother nodded, "Could work."

Looking at the body now, it was Sam who noticed the lines on Martin Capelin's arm. "Hey, hold his arm up for a second, would you?" he asked, to which Dean reluctantly complied, making a face as he touched the dead body. Shoulder slightly elevated from the dumpster, the tattoo underneath his arm was revealed. Surprise surprise - a flaming axe. Sam's eyes widened as they took in the image, as did Dean's when he saw a second later. "They do say that art imitates life" Sam said incredulously.

"A spirit doesn't work that way – that's for damn sure" Dean answered, but then his face dropped when he realized what that meant, the other option, "Freakin' witches."

* * *

"Hello- Hello? I'm looking for Detective Stevenson? About the axe murder?" Dean tried, to no avail, to get a hold of the detective at the station. He held his phone to his ear, getting more and more frustrated every time he was switched to another department. The detective was nowhere, or was trying very hard not to be found. Probably didn't want to waste his time with them. After yet another cop, the smirk evident in his voice, told him the detective couldn't come to the phone at the minute, Dean gave in. "Screw you, buddy" he said, then hung up.

"Detective won't help us?" Sam asked from across the room, where he had he laptop out as he searched for local tattoo parlours or tattoo artists that could be responsible. Dean shook his head, "Won't even come to the phone."

"He really doesn't like FBI, does he?"

Dean shrugged, wanting very much to sock the smarmy bastard in the jaw right about now. "You got anything?"

"Yes, actually" Sam replied, turning the laptop screen around to show him, "It's out lucky day – Vic died one street away from the most popular tattoo shop in town: Rosemary's"

"Sammy, how do you feel about getting a tattoo?" Dean asked. Sam looked up with a grin, thinking his brother was joking, but his face fell when he saw the seriousness there.

* * *

"So, you hear about that guy who died last night?" Sam asked the receptionist at Rosemary's, a small girl so heavily tattooed he wondered what her actual skin tone was, but he suspected from her accent she was Japanese. She looked up from the magazine she was flicking through to glance at the guy. He'd showed up out of the blue to book a tattoo, choosing to wait here until then rather than coming back another day, and was now pacing the waiting room irritably. He hadn't even picked a design yet, the sap - just hovered and looked ready to run out. Still, talking about a murder was more interesting than the article she was reading, so she leaned forwards on the desk to speak to him. "Yeah, he was in here just before he died" she told him, and he came over and leaned on the desk too, interested. "No way" he said, "what was he doing?"

"Grocery shopping" she deadpanned, and he laughed. "He got a tattoo, dummy. Funny thing though-" she started.

"What?" the guy asked. The girl looked around suspiciously, but they were alone in the waiting room. "The piece he got, on his shoulder – it was an axe, like what killed him."

Sam feigned surprise, "Really?"

"Uh-huh" he girl confirmed, leaning forward even closer now to talk, genuinely interested. "Came in here out of nowhere, just like you, drunk and asking for a tattoo. We get the kind in here all the time, so we tried telling him it was a bad idea – wasn't listening though. Our girl Mary did it, and he was gone. Heard he died this morning, and the way he did – we're all freaked. Why you think there's no one here?"

"This girl 'Mary' tattoos all your customers?" Sam asked, thinking he might have found their witch.

"Nah," said the girl, "we trade shifts, but she'll do yours now. What are you getting, anyhow?"

"Um," Sam fidgeted, pulling his collar, "haven't decided yet"

"You got anything before?"

Sam thought for a second before showing her his anti-possession tattoo, thinking it would help him to gain her trust and get more information. He pulled down his shirt to show her, "Just this."

"Cool" the girl said, looking impressed by the strange mark. "It's just, you know - you don't seem the type" she finished, tilting her head apologetically.

Sam smiled back, and then continued his questioning. "Anything like this ever happen before? I'm not going to die after this am I?" It was a bad joke to make really.

"No, nothing like this before that we know of. Or again – I hope. You're safe with us, promise" she smiled, "speaking of which, Mary's lunch break is over." She disappeared back behind a curtain for a few minutes, returning and telling him to "head right on through."

Sam did not want to get a tattoo, and had no intention of doing so. But, if this Mary was their witch, he should at least talk to her first to see what he could find out. So he went through to a surprisingly spacious tattoo room, its walls filled with boards of all their designs, to find a very small blonde waiting for him with a gaited smile. "Hi sir, I'm Mary Chase" she introduced herself with a small nod of her head, sending blonde locks bouncing across her shoulders. "Sam" he replied. The FBI cover ditched for now, he was just a guy getting a tattoo (or not, in his case).

"You decided what you want yet?" the girl asked softly, voice matching her petite look perfectly. He crossed the room to the nearest wall of designs and shrugged, "Not really. Can you recommend anything?"

"Most people know what they want before they come, you know" she laughed gently at him, following him over quietly.

"You get many walk-ins?" Sam asked, thinking of the vic.

"A few" she said, "Mostly just drunk guys. We try telling them it's a mistake but do they ever listen?" Sam guessed no, to which she replied, "Damn straight."

He tried, "like that guy the other night?" At the mention of the victim, for what else could he mean, the girl paled instantly, and he noticed her red-rimmed eyes for the first time. "Sorry, people talk" he said quickly, hoping to pacify her. He didn't want her to cry, she looked so small. "Yes, like him" she said, quite frostily.

"Anything like it ever happened before?" he asked, and knew immediately he'd crossed a line, cause she turned to him angrily, hair flying about her shoulders as she turned sharply to face him. "You a reporter? Or a cop?" she demanded.

"What? No, of course not"

"Then perhaps you'd better pick your design" her tone like ice, "_Sir_".

The plan was for Dean to call before the tattooing process started, with a fake emergency of family illness or the demise of a hypothetical pet. But, as Sam sat on a chair, Mary's machine buzzing to life beside him, no phone call came. When Mary got the ink ready, testing the machine was in order, no call came. _Please Dean_, Sam thought, _hurry up. _When Mary reached out to touch his arm to steady it, needle inches above his skin, Sam decided enough was enough. He was just about to move away when Mary touched his arm and gasped. She moved her fingers away instantly, staring at him with a mixture of horror and dread on her face, like she had just seen the worst of all things. In his haste not to get inked, Sam moved away too, springing to his feet, not seeing this look. "I'm sorry, I can't get a tattoo" he fumbled, walking backwards, "I have a fear of needles." He fell over a machine behind him, getting up and leaving quickly, mumbling apologies the whole way.

Once he was gone, Mary sat alone. She had masked her horror, but what had happened remained fresh in her mind; she'd never forget it. And it terrified her.

* * *

"What, no new tattoo?" Dean called to his brother, leaning against the hood of the impala with his boyish grin lighting up his face. Sam stumbled out into the bright light and saw this; his face turned from confusion to anger. "You didn't" he said, stopping. Dean continued grinning, exaggerating a shrug. "You did. I can't believe you, Dean" Sam came forwards, half wanting to punch his brother.

"What? I knew you'd get out somehow" Dean laughed.

"So you left the plan? Grow up, you idiot" Sam complained, annoyed, as he slammed the car door, the whole thing creaking in answer. "Aw come on, it's not like you were in any danger" Dean got in beside him, thinking his little joke on his brother was hilarious, "You find out anything?"

"Something's up" giving up his frustration, Sam sat and started telling Dean everything he'd learned as they drove away. He finished with, "There was something wrong with Mary, that's for sure."

"You think this chick would be our wicked witch of the west?"

"No, it's more like she was scared" Sam said, thinking of her face when he'd mentioned the dead man. Or when he'd left. She'd looked strange then, but he'd been too preoccupied to notice it. Sam told himself that he was right, and he wasn't just overly sympathetic with her because she shared her name with the mother. Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, and then clicked his indicators to head left. "Lunch? There's a great burger joint three blocks away" he asked.

"No," Sam shook his head, "I want to go to the Library - I've got an idea"

"So sandwiches and books instead - brilliant" Dean sighed, heading towards the city centre, and one of the state's biggest libraries.

Inside the library was huge, bigger than any Sam had ever seen before. It was amazing. "Wow" he breathed, in awe of it. It was like the feeling when they had first discovered the bunker. "So. Many. Books" Dean said, a mixture of wonder and horror, "We're going to be here a _long_ time"

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure they've got a comic book section" Sam teased dryly.

"Very funny"

* * *

"Found it" Sam said, placing an old flyer in front of Dean, who was naturally plonked on a beanbag in the children's section, reading comics. "What is it?" he asked.

"The girl's name: Mary Chase – it sounded familiar. So I looked her up and found this" Sam tapped the flyer, so Dean sighed and picked it up, reading aloud: "Her powers outlive the legend, surpassing the gifts of live and death itself, with just a single touch she can predict the death of all. Come to our show and meet" Dean trailed off before reading the final words, "Lady Sophia Chase"

"It's her mother, I checked the birth records" Sam told him, interest all over his face, looking proud.

"So what? She inherited mommy dearests gifts and is offing people?"

"I don't think so" Sam leant against the bookshelf awkwardly, not wanting to demean himself to sitting on a beanbag, "I'll buy that she has the gift, but killing people – I don't think so. I think someone's using her."

"Either way, I think it's time we went back and talked to our girl Mary about the sixth sense" Dean said, so they left the library behind, heading back to Rosemary's.

* * *

It wasn't hard to find out Mary's address. The receptionist folded on her quickly when they showed their badges, looking at Sam with betrayal, before telling them her address. She opened the door, hiding behind it but angry. "What the hell do you want from me?" she demanded. The receptionist had called her and told her about the 'Agents' looking for her, but she didn't believe a word of it. "We just want to talk" Sam said, holding his hands so she could see they had no weapons, although of course Dean carried a back up in his belt. "Why?" she asked.

"We know about your mother."

Mary let them in. All her life she had lied, tried to forget about her mother, never talked about what she saw – but she let them in. "So, you can see people's deaths?" Dean started, earning him a look from Sam for not being subtle. "No" she said, sitting down, which they did too. Dean raised a single eyebrow questioningly. "Your mom could" he commented.

"My mom was crazy"

"No, she wasn't, she had a gift" Sam said, in what he hoped was a comforting tone. The house Mary lived in was cluttered, but he noticed no photographs hung on the walls. Almost like she was trying to forget something. "My mom was an alcoholic deadbeat," Mary snapped, "not some freaking ghost whisperer."

"She saw something, now I don't know how, or why, but she did. And I think you do too" Dean said, meeting her eyes. She was tearful, glassing over, an internal struggle with existence. She shook her head, mouthing 'no' but the words were lost in her throat. "Tell us," Sam said, "whatever it is. We'll believe you."

She looked up, cracking. A single tear ran down her face as she started to speak. "Whenever I touch people, I get flashes of . . . things. Bad things"

"You see their deaths" Sam prompted.

"Yes" she nodded, crying a little harder, "It's terrible."

"I'm sorry" said Sam. Mary shook her head, walking over to a table to grab a tissue and wiping the drying tears from her face. "It's not your fault," she reminded him, "It's just life."

"Yeah, and life sucks" Dean said, smiling at her now. "We know it"

"You didn't kill that man, did you?" Sam asked, and Mary shook her head more violently than ever, looking horrified.

"No, No. But I saw it, just before. I thought something was wrong, but then it happened-" she trailed off, tears falling again. "All I could think was that poor guy died, and I did nothing, I never do. I just see it and pretend it's a dream"

"Hey" It was Dean who spoke up, "You never asked for this, saving those folks is not your job."

"But how can I live with it?" she almost shouted, "seeing that every day, with everyone I touch. I can't have relationships, or friends, I don't get a life."

"I know. Now someone killed that guy, and we're going to find out who, I promise. But I think they might have used you, Mary, used your gift" Dean said. She looked up suddenly, pale as a sheet, still trembling slightly. "How?" she asked.

"Have you ever told anyone about this? Anyone who could have found out what you saw and used it?" Sam asked. She shook her head before ducking it, thinking hard.

"Well, there's one person who knows about the predictions" she said, looking back up.

"Who?" Sam asked.

"Detective Stevenson" she said, and the Winchesters exchanged similar looks of exasperation. "I thought something was up a few years ago, asked him to arrest me. He listened, and he didn't think I was crazy" she explained.

"Has this ever happened before? You get a vision and the person dies within the week?"

"A few times, not often" she said, before thinking, "More recently though, there was a guy maybe a month ago. I saw him die by getting shot at a bar, I told the detective – I thought he could stop it; but it happened anyway. Do you think the detective – you think he's killing those people?"

"How else would he know how they were going to die" Sam said gently, but Mary looked sickened. He'd killed those people because of her visions. It seemed obvious now that every time she'd told him of a vision, he had killed the person. "Fine, let's go see Detective up-his-own-ass psychopath" Dean groaned.

* * *

Not surprisingly, Detective Stevenson was hard to find. The station hadn't seen him all day, and he wasn't at home. A few hours later, they decided to split up. They had left Mary alone, but with Stevenson loose and her secret out, Dean agreed to go watch over her while Sam tracked the detective down. "Be careful" he said as he got out of the car, and Sam drove off. Turning towards the house, he made him way to the front door and knocked twice. Mary answered, "What are you doing back here?" But her eyes were wide, fearful; like she was trying to send him a desperate message. Dean was instantly alert. "We were just checking in, making sure you hadn't run into any trouble" he said guardedly. She blinked, nodding slightly, but said "No worries, but maybe you should leave" she was trying to save him, like she hadn't saved anyone else.

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'd better come in" he said, walking into the house, and what he assumed was now a trap. But he kept his hand on the gun in his pocket. Mary closed the door behind him, pleading, "You should have left, Agent."

"I'm not an agent, my name is Dean" he answered, "and you might as well come out, Detective." There was silence for a split second, before the lights went out. The butt of a rifle connected with Dean's shoulder, which had been aimed at his head and the hunter span round and jerked it from his source. Now rifle-less, the detective made a break for it. "Mary, the lights!" Dean ordered. The girl ran for the switch, and hit it just as a hand grabbed her, and something cold was pressed to her throat.

* * *

Sam drove around for a few hours, checking the usual haunts for whack jobs: abandoned factories, warehouses, creepy building. He found nothing. He didn't expect to, really. Stevenson was too smart for that. So he headed back to Mary's a few hours later, picking up some food on the way there. The house was dark when he approached, and he was immediately suspicious. Thumbing the gun in his pocket, he drew it as he got nearer, checking through the windows. He couldn't see anything, but to be safe, he decided to enter through the back of the house. He picked the lock, it was easy enough, and was inside in minutes. Sam made his way slowly through the house, before a noise in the basement drew his attention. He clicked the door open, careful to keep the noise he made to a minimum. Steps led down to a dimly lit basement, twisting at the bottom so he couldn't see inside, but he could hear the voices. Silently, he crept down to listen in.

* * *

Dean stood in a damp basement beside Mary, gun trained on them both. He'd been forced to drop his own weapons to save her, at the risk of her throat being cut out, and now Stevenson had them both. The Fed suit he had donned that morning was dirty, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and tie abandoned hours ago. Stevenson hadn't shot them, insisting that he needed Mary alive. "I don't understand, man. Why are you killing people?" Dean asked.

"Because it is destiny" answered Stevenson, from where he sat atop a table, "she's knows how they die; I make fate happen." The guy was insane, which Dean promptly told him. The detective laughed, "If I do not kill them, how do her predictions come to pass. How else would Capelin have died of a flaming axe?"

"You really are dumb for a psychopath. She didn't make that happen – you did. She only saw you killing them"

"And I only acted from what she saw" he smiled, "It's a vicious loop."

"It wouldn't be if you didn't go around killing people" Dean ranted. He really hated it whenever it was just people killing people. Spirits, Werewolves, Vampires – that was just the job. But when it's just people killing others, it made him wonder why he fought so hard to save humanity.

The detective looked cruelly down at him, "And did you ask her what she saw for your brother?" That made Dean stop. His blood ran cold, as he froze right there.

"How do you know about my brother?" Dean asked.

"Me and Mary here had a little chat when you left her all alone, she told me some very interesting things," Stevenson smiled, knowing he had hit a nerve. "Ask her" he ordered. Dean turned to Mary, who shook her head, downturned, as tears steadily stained her cheeks. She didn't deserve any of this: but anything to do with Sam dying was serious for him. "Mary" he prompted, but she stayed silent.

"Tell him!" shouted Stevenson, so loud she flinched up, staring at them both with equal fear.

"I'm sorry" she stammered out to Dean, sobbing, "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, it's alright. I'm not mad, none of this is your fault" he comforted her. He wanted to reach out, but knew what the consequences would be. And frankly, he didn't want to know what was coming for him. "Save it for therapy" Stevenson moaned, holding the rifle back up, "Tell him or I shoot. 5" Mary shook her head. "4" Dean cursed, calling Stevenson every name under the sun. "3" Now, Dean told the girl to just talk, to live another day. "2" Mary cracked.

"A dagger!" she shouted with desperation, covering her mouth as she did to hold back the tears. Then she stood up a little, "A poisoned dagger."

"That's ridiculous" Dean said, turning to her, "Why would that happen?"

"I don't know, that's just what I saw" Mary said, wiping her eyes, "It's just flashes, but I saw people with black eyes, a man standing over you both, but it was the poisoned dagger that ended it."

"Black eyes? You mean Demons?" Dean demanded, running a hand through his hair, messing it up and turning on the spot.

"I don't know. What do you mean 'demons'?" Mary asked, and even Stevenson seemed concerned with the turn of events, holding his rifle towards Dean now. "It will be Crowley most likely. They must catch us" Dean said, no longer worried about Stevenson.

"There's no such thing, Dean. You're not making sense" the girl pleaded.

Dean made a face, "Long story. Demons are real, and they want us dead pretty badly."

"That's insane" said Stevenson.

"Says the homicidal maniac with a gun" Dean retorted automatically, "What? People predicting deaths can be real but demons can't?"

"Well isn't that interesting. Hell wants you, and I have you" Stevenson said, pulling a dagger from his bag, "And I have just the thing."

"You can't kill them" said Mary, coming forwards now to face the Detective, "you're not the one."

"You said a dagger, you didn't say who uses it" Stevenson defended, looking concerned suddenly. He held both the gun and knife now, but there was an uncertainty about him. "The dagger wasn't literal" the young girl claimed, the confusion clearing from her face. She seemed to stand a little taller, and Dean watched her. "What? What do you mean?" Stevenson jumped to his feet, ramming the gun in Mary's face, the tension in every move he made. She didn't even flinch, her face stony. "You idiot" she said strongly, "You used me, killed people because of me." She sounded disgusted. "You think I'd tell you the truth?"

"You said a poisoned dagger was going to kill the boys" Stevenson said, obviously in a panic now, the gun trembling in his hand. He knew this girl and her gift were very dangerous, and that crossing her now wouldn't end well. "Yes I did," Mary said calmly. Her next words were more important than she could ever know, "The poisoned dagger isn't a weapon: it's a person."

* * *

It was at this moment that Sam appeared at the foot of the stairs, shooting Stevenson in the back. The man dropped, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, finally falling dead to the floor. Sam came behind him, kicking the rifle away from the dead man's hands for good measure. Dean turned to the girl beside him, who was shaking, but seemed to have a new air about her. "Mary" he said softly, and she faced him.

"I'm so sorry" she said, "for telling him, for everything. I was just so scared"

"It's okay"

"No it isn't. I've been scared of this for my whole life; I've got to help people instead of just watching them die" she nodded, "I will. He killed people in my name, and that will never be alright."

"None of this is your fault" Sam told her, lowering his own gun now, "you were born like it."

"But I didn't have to live like it. My mother, she let it beat her, and I won't do that anymore. I did, but never again" she smiled, "I guess I have to thank you boys for saving me." It's funny, Sam thought, she didn't look so small now. The girl at the tattoo shop, the frightened haunted one, was gone. Since standing up to Stevenson, she was reborn. "No need, It's our job" Sam said.

"Why?" she asked, turning to them both, "You told me this morning that saving people wasn't my job – why is it yours?"

Dean and Sam shared a look, before Dean spoke. "It's the Family Business"

"Maybe it shouldn't be anymore" Mary said, looking serious, afraid even, again. "What I saw, it's still coming. It wasn't Stevenson; it was a lot bigger than that. This is going to get you killed; you should get out while you can."

"That horse bolted a long time ago" Dean sighed wryly, looking at her honestly, "this is our life now; no turning back."

"Even if it gets you killed?"

"We've faced worse odds" Sam laughed, "even saved the world a few times."

"But this is different" Mary protested, coming forwards, hoping desperately they would listen. What she had seen – she wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy. To live and die that way. "The only way out is to end it. I remember that from the vision, not much else. But the dagger is coming, straight for your heart. And you won't be able to stop it because it is your weakness."

"What?" Dean asked, both Winchester boys looking dumbstruck. If she really could predict deaths, and was usually right, a storm was coming. But this 'dagger' she spoke of – what the hell was it? A metaphor? A weapon? A person?

"Family" Mary said.

* * *

They helped the poor girl skip town. There was no other option, really. There was a dead cop in her basement, and no one would ever believe the truth. So they helped her to pack, sorted her out with a new identity, and bought her a plane ticket. She left with their number, and a promise that if she ever needed help, they'd be there. She never did call. There were no long goodbyes; too much was left unsaid for that. It was just over.

With her gone and Stevenson dead, there was no reason to stick around. So, shaken, they headed to the safest place: the bunker – their home. It was still weird to call it that. _Home_. They'd never had one before. But they had made it their own in their small time there. Whereas before it was dusty, but the storage place of old books and files from men long dead, they had slowly filled it with life. Just little things at first: filling the fridge with their crap, dirty magazines scattered on tables, a small armoury being laid on the tables. Then, as they came to realize it was theirs, and actually staying, more things of their own came in: family photographs, the few personal belongings they owned. They even had their own beds for the first time since they were little children, not lumpy motel room mattresses. Dean kept swearing he'd get a pool table eventually.

The whole way back, a stony silence between them was maintained. Not because they were angry, but because there was just too much to say. The gift Mary had, it was real. And what she saw for them – it would happen. It was just a matter of when.

"I've been thinking we should take a break" Dean said suddenly, not meeting Sam's eye but looking straight ahead instead.

"Why? Because a psychic touched me and freaked out?" Sam asked.

"Well, that is the usual reaction to touching you"

"Shut up" said Sam, but they laughed.

"But seriously though," Dean tried again, "Mary – she ain't just some psychic. I've never seen anything like that before, and I really hope we don't again. I have no interest in knowing what's coming for me." He paused, but Sam remained silent, thoughtful. "But what she saw, it's happening. We know they've been after us for a while now. Why risk it?"

"And you think what? We should hide out in the bunker? For how long, Dean?" Sam sighed, "Let's face it, we're in too deep. They won't give up, not ever. If we go under and hide – we'll never come back out."

"Maybe that's not so bad" Dean said, looking at him for the first time, "We have the bunker now, _a home, Sammy. _A real one."

"I know" Sam agreed quietly. Of course Dean would see that dark place as a home. But Sam didn't. For him, the only way ever to get a 'real home' was to finish all of this and get a normal life. "But we can't just give in. You know we can't"

Dean nodded, because it was true even if he didn't want it to be, "I know. I just wish we could get a break for once. Whatever happened to just hunting monsters?"

"Life" Sam said, "That's what happened. And guess what?" he repeated the phrase Dean had used earlier that day, "Life sucks."

"Yes it does"

"But you don't give in when it gets tough. We've got to stop them, Dean" Sam said, and his brother nodded slowly.

"Just stay alive, Sammy. I can keep fighting forever as long as you're alright" Dean said, staring out the front window, therefore missing Sam's look.

"Promise" the younger Winchester said.

The poisoned dagger was coming, but just maybe it would miss their hearts, and they could survive this too. If luck was on their side and Winchesters stuck it out, through hell and high water.


	4. Hell's poisoned Dagger

'Hell's poisoned dagger'

Two brothers walked a road too long; one said to the other "go get your gun." So there they stood, and there they'd run; always chasing some distant sun. But darkness followed, darkness won; the light they held was overrun. Now demons wait, hell thought they'd won; little did they know it had just begun.

And it would never end.

* * *

Six months before . . .

* * *

The Winchester boys had gotten in the way. Again. Crowley was sick of the plaid wearing, self-righteous, meddlesome little bastards. They had ruined his plans one too many times; destroying everything he worked so hard for. What did they know about running hell? Because it isn't easy - not for a second, and every second he fought to maintain what he had won with his own sweat and blood. He had earned the throne, earned his place at the top. Not like Lucifer, or Azazel or any of the others, who just swanned in and took over, then failed miserably. Now Abaddon too was pushing to be top of the pile, and he was fending her off on all sides. No, he actually worked his way up there.

But then they came along and messed it all up. He'd been warned about the Winchesters, and he was the only demon to take the threat seriously; the only one who had not underestimated them. It had kept him alive, and in power, so far. But now a line had been crossed. The last few months, trying to shut hell – they stepped over the 'troublesome' boundary and into the 'need to be removed' category. Trying to turn him human was the final straw. What he'd felt, the emotions – it wasn't right. The worst thing was now, after all of that, he couldn't hate them. He tried to, he knew he should do, he wanted to: but he couldn't. It was as if he was –

_No_, he thought, he could afford to think like that. With Abaddon threatening his place, there was one thing he could do to gain the allegiance of the demons, and secure his place as King. He could destroy their greatest enemies: those two boys. If he could catch them, kill them in public; he would be seen as a success. A hero in the eyes of all the demons. He might just keep his crown. But it was more than that now: it wouldn't be enough to just kill them. There had to be a final insult, one last slap in the face to finish them – but what?

Then, like the intricate pieces of a clock, things fell into place in his mind. There was an old plan, long ago scrapped, but it's product kept safe in hell. It worked for him now, in fact – it was their best torturer. He was sure they would make a good assassin too. It was perfect.

The Winchesters were all about family, their bleeding hearts taking in any stray and calling it a brother; it was the most important thing to them. So how much deeper would it cut them of it was family that finished them. Even if the person he had in mind failed, the emotional torment of not being able to save family would tear those blasted brothers apart. He grinned. "Fetch me the Hunter's Daughter" he ordered, and a particularly skittish demon he'd taken on as his most recent assistant scurried off without question, but looked considerably confused. He returned a few minutes later, obviously hurrying to impress, with a second set of footsteps at his side.

Crowley turned, surveying the soldier in front of him: the red hair, pale face, looking a fragile little child. They wouldn't know from looking at her that she was hell's deadliest weapon. Then he smiled – how could they not want to protect her? She was perfect for the job. "You asked to see me, sir?" the girl asked confidently, stepping into the light.

"Darling, I have a new mission for you" he smiled, "and I think we're going to get along just fine."

* * *

SUPERNATURAL

* * *

Five dead in a week in Lawrence. Five bodies, totally unrelated, lying on slabs in morgues in their hometown. "We've got to go, Dean" Sam said. They stood in the bunker, over the table, crime scene reports spread out between them, too many to push to one side. There was no way to just 'carry on' with a case like this. "It's a trap and we know it" Dean answered.

"I know"

"So we just walk into it?" Dean asked, but he couldn't bring himself to get mad at his brother for suggesting something so stupid. He'd considered it himself more times than he'd admit. "If it stops the demons killing people, yes" Sam replied softly, "You know it's our responsibility."

"Shouldn't have to be" Dean laughed bitterly, rubbing his chin, "But you're right. You know they'll probably kill us?"

"Probably. - But we can get a few of them first" Sam pointed out.

"Alright" his brother agreed, "we'll go, but we'll go prepared. We're not giving up easily, or just walking to die."

"Of course not, we'll fight what we can, then-"

"The end. We can't win this one." Dean said sombrely, walking away without another word.

They had gotten a call two days ago: turn yourselves over or we'll keep killing. It was from hell; and they meant it. The threat was genuine. Sam and Dean just couldn't ignore it. They and been careful for a while now, taking smaller jobs, keeping their heads down. But something like this could not be swept under the rug. No matter how much they needed to keep safe, they also knew it was their job to protect people. If they got caught, if they died: it was just the price they would pay. Dean tried calling Cas, even though he knew the fallen angel could no longer hear him. As always, he didn't answer. So they drove out there, to Kansas, where it all began. It was the setting that gave it away really, only the demons after them would attack their hometown. But those demons should have known it was a mistake.

Sam sat beside him, silent and brooding. As much as he told himself it was stupid, Sam was annoyed at his brother for making them take a step back. So what if hell was after them? It usually was. And them stepping back allowed things like this to happen. He didn't mean it in an arrogant way, but the world needed them doing what they do best: saving people.

The impala seemed slow that day, taking a while to start that morning as if it didn't want them to go. It seemed plain to them now that whatever was waiting for them in Kansas, they were driving to their deaths. But if by hiding, the demons starting killing to draw them out – there was no other choice. They would give their lives to save others any day. Of course, this didn't mean they wouldn't fight. There had been an unspoken agreement between them for years that if something this bad ever happened, they would go down fighting. So they were prepared as they drove out on that frosty morning, enough weapons to equip a small army in their trunk. The plan was to head to the site of the last murder: an old school in Kansas that had been abandoned for years, and see what came for them. Then, shoot anything that moved. Keep fighting until the lights were gone; to die together, guns in their hands, protecting something worth dying for. _Humanity_.

Dean looked over to his brother and realized he had only two regrets. The first that he could not save Sam, after it all: he couldn't save him one more time. He tried, god did he try, to keep his little brother safe all these years. But it was clear from the set of his jaw that Sam would not budge this time. People were dying, and he couldn't sit by to watch it. Sam would go, and willingly, to fight something that wanted him dead. Because that's who he was. _Damn it, _thought Dean, _why'd he have to be so human? _But there was nothing to be done: they were going, and now all that was left was a final journey. He still hoped he could save Sam when they got there and met whatever it was, he'd still try. Until his last breath.

His only other regret was that he never got to say goodbye to Cas.

Sam, on the other hand, felt calm going into that battle. Things hadn't been good for years, not really. First there was Amelia, and so much regret; then the trials. He still got headaches frequently that would never fade. He had done it all, all of it, still trying to make up for the past. For the things he had done, he was still searching for redemption. He thought he would find it here, in the greatest sacrifice, but he was wrong. All Sam really needed to do was forgive himself. He said he still saw a light at the end if the tunnel, but that was more of a dream now. The light was a normal life, and he had grown up in darkness. But people being killed for them was the line, the limit. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let it go on, knowing it was because of him.

He only wished Dean did not have to go with him.

The Winchesters were not afraid of dying, for they knew what awaited them. But they were afraid of losing each other; scared of what would happen to those they loved the most. They had lived their lives in fear: the playthings of the divine and unholy all at once, but yet somehow they had defeated all their demons. Now, the only thing left was fighting for the one thing that mattered: each other; their family.

* * *

Pulling up in Lawrence, the boys thought of home. For them, it was a lot of different places. It was the house they had spent their first few years, and the only memory of their mother. It was Bobby's house before it burned down: where they had learnt the true meaning of family. It was the bunker, their new home, one they had found all by themselves and made special. They had left it this morning with hearts weighed down with anchors, burying the key in front of it. Messages had been sent to both Charlie and Garth, telling them where the key was, and to use the information inside well. Who else would they trust with their home but their few remaining family? They had both smiled at the thought of Charlie and Garth meeting: what a team that would be. There had been no goodbyes in those messages – what was there to say? That is was 'nice knowing them, but they were on their own because the Winchesters were giving in?' Because as much as they would call it a sacrifice and fight the moral grounds that it was their duty to stop the killings: this was them giving in. They were giving in because after all the years of suffering, they could not stand to see any more blood on their hands.

But really, the longest home they'd ever known was that car. It was their shelter when it rained, their house when the road had no end; the only place where the music was loud enough to drown out the demons screaming inside their heads. It would drive them to their last stand: it was their last home. And undoubtedly, their best. It had saved the world once, what could be better? But all too soon, they had arrived on the dull streets of Lawrence, and it was time to leave. They didn't expect to come back this time, so as they walked away from where they'd parked her, Dean ran a hand along the impala a final time, patting the hood twice before he walked away. Neither of them looked back.

* * *

The Old Schoolhouse: abandoned, rotting, 50 types of creepy. So this was it. The white paint was peeling from the broken wooden boards holding it together, revealing the dark rot underneath. The windows were cracked, made translucent by a layer of filth, no resistance against the wind which howled like a hungry wolf in their ears. The doors were of no use, a child could have broken them down. It was falling apart, barely a shack, let alone a school. It was the destination they were headed for though, so checking the guns they had brought with them a final time, they slowly approached, halting underneath the branches of an oak tree on the front lawn. If they had been given normal lives, if their mother hadn't of died and they grown up on the roads, this might have been their school as children. But life didn't work out that way for the Winchesters.

"Listen, Sammy-" Dean started, but his brother interrupted him quickly.

"Its okay, Dean. I know" Sam nodded, "I know."

"There could still be a way out of this, we've been saved before" Dean tried, but they both knew it meant nothing now; the angels had needed them back then, when the angels were mighty; not scattered and broken humans. But they could pretend it was true, have hope. So they said nothing.

Impulsively, Dean stepped forward and wrapped his brother in a hug. Without hesitation, Sam hugged his back just as fiercely. They stood in the shade for a moment, underneath that tree, just holding one another; that was enough to keep going. "Just try and stay alive" Dean whispered.

Sam nodded against his shoulder, "Go down swinging." With this, they broke apart, heading towards the school with a new drive. This might be the end, and it seemed likely it was, but they could at least take some of these freaks down with them.

No one said goodbye, it remained unsaid, a silent promise. _See you later. _

* * *

Inside the schoolhouse, it was just as dreary as the outside promised, decaying and cold. In the daylight, they could see their way around, working through the rooms carefully in anticipation. When all seemed empty, they made their way to the main room: the old lecture hall. Seats sloped down towards a stage, the room so vast they felt dwarfed by it; a solitary figure awaited them on the stage. "Crowley" Dean growled upon seeing the head demon, facing way from them.

Crowley turned with a smile, "hello boys."

"We came," Dean called, as he made his way down one side of the steps, Sam taking the other. "So tell us what this is all about" he finished.

"Surely you know?" Crowley answered, holding his arms out, "After everything you've done – trying to shut hell, turn me into one of you – I couldn't let you walk away."

"We've been doing this a long time, Crowley. What makes you think we'll stop now?" Sam asked.

"You never had me after you before – or at least not my full attention. There was always something more important: stopping Lucifer, stopping Eve, finding Purgatory, ridding the earth of those filthy Leviathans - I hated those things" he said quietly to himself. "But then I sat down and I realized all those things I could have done myself. Then my plans, the one to get the souls, or any of the other things – it was you two bumbling idiots that messed it all up. I could have been so much more by now if it wasn't for you, so you see my reasoning: I end you now, the other things happen without your meddling. I always put my plans first but now I see my mistake, I should have been putting you two number one on my list." He held up one finger to demonstrate.

"So you did," said Dean shaking his head and a daring grin, "wish we could say this was the first time we were Hells most wanted."

"Exactly" said Crowley, "you see; all the others failed because their plans involved using you to complete others plans, my plans are only you."

"You sure do know how to make a guy feel special" Dean grinned, still walking forwards. By now, he and Sam were almost at the stage where Crowley stood, and his finger itched to pull his trigger. "I try, sweetheart" Crowley similarly teased in a dry tone.

"But you didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" Sam asked, tilting his head and squinting his eyes, "We've faced worse, and we came prepared. _We know you_" He caught the King's eye. It was true, he knew Crowley better than anyone, because he had seen him when he was almost human; all raw emotion.

"I came prepared too" Here, Crowley smiled manically; eyes alight with triumph, backtracking quickly from the fear that had gleamed there at Sam's words. He saw this plan as near fool-proof, but knew better than to think it was watertight. He had an escape route planned. He clapped his hands as the Winchesters stopped walking, having reached the stage. "So I thought to myself: how do you stop the Winchesters? Then the answer came to me – you find their weakness. And I think we all know what yours is."

"Each other," Sam agreed, "we know. That's why we agreed that no matter what happens: if either of us dies – you do too. That weakness is gone."

"Yes, yes I expected that much. But as much as your weakness is each other, it is bigger than that: its family" The demon king announced. Dean's blood ran cold, as he imaged Crowley attacking any of their family out there: Garth, Charlie, Kevin, even Cas. Maybe that's why he wasn't around. He raised his gun quickly, moving forward threateningly. "I swear, if you've hurt any of them you son of a bitch-" he raged.

"Steady! Call off your attack dog, moose" Crowley said, and Sam touched his brother's shoulder, internally seething himself. "I haven't touched any of the pathetic, scattered nobodies you call 'Family'" Crowley confirmed.

"Then do you mean?" Sam asked, not trusting his brother to speak right now.

"What enemy will you not shoot back at?" Crowley grinned. The boys faces changed as the new information registered, clicking into place. Then their jaws locked, eyes grew furious, and they both got ready to put Crowley down and damn the consequences. "What? You possess someone? Bring someone back? Huh?" Dean demanded to know, jerking his gun at the demon.

"No, that's the best part. She's doing this because I gave her orders to, and she is one of us. Oh, she's human – she just thinks she's a demon, so she works for me."

"_She_?" asked Sam, scanning his mind frantically for names of anyone it might be. What did Crowley mean she _thinks _she's a demon? Why would she, whoever she is, be working for him?

"Right, I haven't said yet" Crowley smugly said, making a face as he waved his hands, "You know the story: hunter works case, hunter saves girl, girl is_ oh so thankful_. Nine months later, the hunter is gone and there's a baby left behind." He smiled at them maliciously, pacing in front of the brothers. "Well, what if we found the woman while she was pregnant and possessed her? What is she gave birth to a baby, a hunters child no less; in hell – then we brought it up as one of our own?" He paused, the grin gone but the sinister smugness shining from his face like a light bulb. "So when this child was born, we told the kid it was a demon. Brought it up like one of us – a human child of hell. Like a demon, but that _little bit of human_ – it's priceless. That tiny spark of free will is what makes it the perfect assassin, the perfect torturer. But because it thinks it is a demon, and knows nothing of its birth, it follows our orders. _It becomes our family_. So it grows up, not knowing any better because we never taught it any different. It becomes our best soldier"

"-Let me guess, known as the dagger?" Dean suggested dryly, interrupting him. Crowley, looking stunned that they could know this, nodded. Of course, he wouldn't know anything about Mary the psychic, and how they'd known this was coming. "Yes, yes they are. So, where was I? Oh right – the child. So say then that we need a job doing, some _pests need killing_, and we need the perfect one for the job – who else would we pick? Especially when we worked out who her daddy was; now that _was_ the icing on the cake." His tone was mocking.

"Who is it?" Sam, tired of the frankly horrifying story, snapped.

"Wait, I'm not finished. Because she's coming to kill you in a moment, when I call her. But I want you to know first: it was a pleasure beating you, boys. You're going to die today; I have no doubt about that, because you won't fight back."

"Like hell we won't" protested Dean.

"You won't," Crowley said simply, "because she's family, and you can't save her. But you won't kill your own family."

"We don't even know who she is; we have no connection to her. Sure, it sucks what you did to her – but that doesn't mean we won't fight back" Sam told him.

"Who is she, anyway? How is some chick you kidnapped our family?" Dean finally demanded to know. Crowley, a look of insane pleasure upon his face, leaned forwards and said, very slowly so they would catch every word.

"She's Bobby Singer's daughter."

* * *

"What?" Dean demanded, his face a riot of emotion: confusion, horror, sympathy. "Bobby doesn't have a daughter."

"-That he knows of" Crowley said, pointing his finger at them.

"But he wouldn't have kids anyway, he never would. It was one thing he always said" Sam protested, similarly confused.

"This wasn't planned, though" Crowley reminded them, "he was a hunter for years, you really think he didn't ever have a night off? Or to be more specific, a night off nineteen years ago?"

"No, he wouldn't" Dean tried, but sounded less convinced himself. Could it be true? If Bobby really did have a kid, he never mentioned it – but how would he know if Hell had hijacked the girl? It was sickening: that a child could be brought up like that and manipulated into a monster. Then again, it didn't sound too different from his own childhood. Crowley twitched an eyebrow, seeming confident as he paced around them. "Wouldn't he? Are you really so sure? You boys both know how the job goes" the king teased them.

"No," Sam said assuredly, "He wouldn't, and plus – you're a liar, Crowley."

"That's true," Crowley admitted with a wry grin, "but will you risk it?"

"What's there to risk? Even if it is Bobby's daughter, she's fighting on the wrong side" Sam said.

"And you'd know all about that" said Crowley loudly, silencing the hunter.

"Sam," Dean said softly, and caught his brothers eye. Sam made a face, but the haunted look in his brother's eyes pulled him short. "Whoever this girl is; this isn't her fault. Listen to him, he's saying she knew none of it, how can we blame her for being born?" The oldest Winchester spoke quietly to his brother, begging him to understand. If it was Bobby's daughter, Crowley was right – she was family. Just like Sam, she had been used and manipulated from birth into being a monster. Except nobody had saved her, like Dean saved Sam, so she never learned any better. They couldn't kill her now.

"You're a dick" Sam said bitterly, tuning to Crowley in disgust, and knowing in his heart that his brother was right. They were done, defeated.

"If it makes you feel any better, this wasn't my idea. Taking the girl, I mean – it happened so long ago. I just . . . manipulated it now" Crowley smiled, "So, if you'll both be dears and tie yourselves up, the public execution begins soon."

* * *

_So that's why they picked the lecture hall_, Sam thought, as he stood, bound a while ago by a small group of demons, on the stage. The hall was slowly filling out with crowds of demons, who walked up a flight of stairs that seemed to lead from beneath the floorboards, and from the way an orange light glowed softly from within, he guessed they were walking straight up from Hell. It seemed the Winchesters execution was a main event deal, because it was the biggest gathering of demons he had ever seen. They really sold out with this one; it turned out demons held grudges. They remembered the Winchester boys, and now bayed for their blood, cheering as they took their seats. Some had even brought popcorn.

"Hey Sam, look, we're famous" Dean joked weakly from beside him. They had been tied to two huge posts atop the stage, standing but unable to move. Crowley had called the demons to put them in place as soon as they'd been silenced, unable to figure a way out. They had to stop the killings, and they couldn't fight back. It was a lose/lose situation. Sam smiled back ineffectively, intent on keeping a brave face for Dean's sake. But it didn't work. "I'm sorry" Dean said.

"You don't need to be," Sam answered with a shake of his head, "we both knew there was no sunset to ride off in, and this was always going to end badly."

"Not for you" Dean said, "Never for you." He meant it. For Sam, he wanted the world. For everything his brother ever dreamed of to come true. But now it was too late. They were dying - and Sam didn't get the ending Dean wanted for him. Sam deserved something better than this, he believed that, but he couldn't give it to him. "Well if you'll excuse me, I may have to go vomit" Crowley said, from where he waited on a chair atop the stage, literally a front-row seat.

"Screw you" the oldest brother spat.

"No thanks" the king answered sarcastically, "You're not my type."

"Almost full, sir" a young demon, shaking constantly like a leaf, appeared at Crowley's side to deliver the news.

"Fantastic," Crowley replied, "times up, boys. Showtime!" he waved his hands dramatically, then sneered. But there was an uncertainty about him, falseness to his actions. He hoped their deaths would take away this doubt, this _human_ feeling hanging about him.

The crowd was in uproar. On their feet in tumult, screaming for the deaths of the Winchesters. Half the butts in the seats had crossed paths with the brothers at least once. It was time for them to get theirs, and every demon around had shown up to witness it. Sam and Dean caught each others gaze, knowing they were backed into a pretty tight corner this time. The light was fading from the sky above, and there was no electricity to help this, just the darkness left behind. It was sundown – how poetic. The light made everything look red, aided by the orange glow from deep below. Crowley held a hand up for silence, and the cheering stopped. "My friends, take your seats!" he shouted, and every demon in their sat back down contently. "It is a day of celebration for us all. The trouble is over – these boys have caused us all pain, but now they stand here – trapped like dogs." There was another wave of cheering. "The Devil's vessel and the Sword of Heaven: look at them now" All the demons laughed, as did the King, looking down at the Winchesters who stared back defiantly.

"It's a pleasure to be here tonight" Dean yelled, still paying cool even now, grinning back at them all. He tugged at the binds on his wrists, behind his back and looped around the post. "Quiet!" ordered Crowley sharply, as Dean earned himself a slap in the face from a demon guard. He fell back, straightening up with his head still high. Sam watched on; face angry; he didn't want to spend his last moments watching his brother hurt. "You've got what you want, Crowley, we're here. Leave him alone" he said.

"Well isn't that sweet – brotherly love" Crowley cooed back, then continued coldly, "who shall we make watch the other die?" Shouts were called back from the crowd in answer, excited into a roar again as the king of hell smugly watched on. For this, for ending the Winchester problem, he was truly the king in their eyes.

Then, silence fell all of a sudden. A final figure ascended the stairs, bathed in red light, face hidden. The brother's assumed it was their executioner; Bobby's child. All sat again, even Crowley, as she approached, more of a shadow than a person. Obscured by darkness, all they could see of her was her figure: she looked small to them. Of course, this caused only pity on their part, a sadness and desire to protect someone they should have been for a long time. But size is no indication of strength, or heart. She was slight in figure but tough looking; deceptively strong and in no way fragile. All they knew about little girl Singer so far was she was dangerous. From the way she walked up, a doubtless confidence to every step, a drive; like she was on a mission. With technically, she was. Before they had time to think, she had arrived, standing before them.

Up close, they could see more of her, as her face fell into light upon looking on them. Her hair was red, brightly so, only exaggerated more by the paleness of his skin. She had faded blue-grey eyes like a thundercloud on a misty day: Bobby's eyes. They were alike to Sam's blue hue, which changed frequently from shattered blue to pale green, depending on the light and angle at which you looked at them: much like the man, they changed constantly like the seasons. Her blue was washed out and listless however, than the vibrant green of Dean's eyes, which were like sunlight shining through leaves if you were to lie beneath a tree in the summer: they held that light in their piercing gaze. Her eyes were calculating, however, intelligent and sharp. Her jaw was set into a strong line, face impassive, ultimately unreadable. Every aspect about her was precise, trained to be so: years in hell learning how to survive did that. They stared at her in equal shock, for she was real, not just some ploy to play with their heads. Both drank her in, trying all at once to size her up and figure her out. Their sister in another life where things were different, if Hell had not taken her and Bobby had got to be a dad. And they stood, dumbstruck, because it was unbelievable. They had thought that they had lost all the family they had left, yet here they were finding a new one.

If circumstances were different, it may have been a happy but awkward meeting, but as she was there to kill them, the moment lost its magic. Maybe half a minute passed just staring on both sides before the young girl's face broke into a grin. "These are the guys you spent the last six months training me to kill?" she asked, turning to Crowley and jerking a thumb in their direction, "hardly worth the effort."

"They're deceptively tricky to destroy" Crowley interjected, cupping his chin in his hand as he relaxed into his seat. The crowd hollered, shouting out to her. The brother's noticed they called her 'Singer' as in Bobby's surname, or Dagger. It seemed to be a nickname. "Really? Well I'll be damned" she grinned, realizing the irony of the statement as she turned back to them, "So these are the famous Winchesters."

"It doesn't have to be this way" Dean said quietly, looking her straight in the eyes. It was not what she had expected: she had anticipated rage, denial, hate towards her, but not this pity she saw in him. "What would you know about it" she snapped back.

"We know who you really are, what he's not telling you" Dean said, "They're using you. Me and Sam aren't the bad guys."

"I'm not likely to believe that" she was sickly sweet, tone sugared but bitter; like poison. Hells poisoned dagger, through and through.

"It's the truth" Sam cut in, and she turned her attention to him. The crowd was restless now, wanting blood, not talk. A hundred demons, maybe more: all growing impatient. Time was not on their side. "What's the truth count for anymore," she started, walking maliciously slowly across to stand directly in front of Sam, "all that counts is surviving. And you _idiots_ won't be doing that much longer." The word idiots caught Sam's attention, so much like Bobby's 'Idjits' he paused. It was like she was trying to warn him, but it was a little late – they were already trapped.

The girl took a bottle of whiskey from a table on the stage, upon which was a selection of wickedly cruel things, instruments of torture especially for them. She took a huge swig as she walked back to them, pacing in front of them as it she was deciding where to cut first. "You guys came for a party, right?" she asked, holding up her bottle to the crowd of demons, who screamed in response. "I'll give you a party" she muttered. The she brought the bottle down against the post just above Sam's head, smashing it so that the pieces rained down above him, forging cuts along his drawn face. Dean shouted his brother's name, his cry feeble against the roaring of the crowd. But Sam heard none of it, as he was distracted as the girl grabbed him by the throat; bringing her face closer to his. As she did this, she pressed a shard of the broken glass into his palms behind his back, and subtly, quickly so no one would ever notice, winked at him. It he'd have blinked, he would have missed it, yet here he now was, with a weapon, and a hopeful feeling about getting out of this place.

Realizing all eyes were probably on him, he tried not to show his surprise, playing along as being scared. Dean was still shouting his name until he was hoarse. Bobby's daughter let him go, releasing his throat, which she was holding loosely anyway, and turned to Dean. "What bucko, getting bored over there?" she asked, slugging him hard in the face. The crowd, thinking this was all part of the 'show' cheered; even Crowley was laughing. Sam watched it all carefully, now he knew she was working on their side. It seemed to him now that every motion was faked, every action engineered to keep the demons distracted. Sam Winchester started working on sawing through the ropes holding him with the shard of glass, keeping the movement hidden.

* * *

Twenty minutes passed, the girl laying into Sam and Dean while a crowd of demons provided the backing track. Sam noticed that every punch she threw, every stab, was aimed to make minimal damage: nothing that would be permanent. She had to make it look realistic, of course, taunting them and acting like a torturer. Now the demons grew impatient for the finale: the deaths of the Winchesters. Sam had been subtly sawing through the ropes all this time, hearing it snap behind him a few minutes before. He kept his hands hidden, waiting for the moment to reveal itself to make their escape. He hoped to hell this girl had a plan. As she slapped Dean in the face, the sound echoing through the small room, he winced for his brother, who knew nothing of the girl's ulterior motives yet. Now all he had to do was tell her he was ready.

"Why don't you just kill us already?" he called to her, and her head snapped around, eyes squinting. He knew she understood; she was smart.

"That would be no fun, sugar" she drawled, wandering over lazily. Crowley stood not far away, watching the show with apparent ease. She smiled at him in what would be a sinister way as she got nearer, and he tensed, ready for the signal. She punched him in the gut, whispering as he doubled over into his ear "get Dean and get ready, you'll know when." He pulled his head up, 'recovering' from the blow, and caught her eye. The communication between them was simple but effective.

"So, my dear Crowley tell me, who should I kill first?" the girl made her way towards the demon king's throne, so he grinned in return, shifting in his chair. His plan could not have worked better. "The moose" he sneered, "it only seems fitting that Dean here should watch over his little brother until the very end."

"You dirty son of a bitch!" Dean could be heard cursing towards them in the distance.

"Careful honey, or I'll have to cut your tongue out" the hunter's daughter warned, inciting a noise of approval from the crowd. Then, looking down and noticing one of her boots were untied, she stooped as it to tie the laces. Everyone paused, some even giving cat calls or whistles, which she rolled her eyes at. Until she pulled a knife from her boot, so quickly no one even had time to make a noise of protest before it was held at Crowley's throat. "Games up, sugar" she cooed, smiling sweetly as ever. Dean looked utterly surprised while Sam revealed he was free, cutting loose Dean's ties too. "Nobody moves or I cut his throat, you hear?" The girl yelled, silencing all. "And if any of you decide it's worth it, I'll easily kill the first twenty of you up here, so think twice before you decide you want to try."

"I'm disappointed" muttered Crowley, "You simply cannot get the staff these days."

* * *

Sam and Dean stood cautiously, approaching the girl as she held the knife to their enemy's throat. Sam had quickly recounted some events to his brother, who was bloody and beaten, but overjoyed at being saved by the most unlikely of sources. "What did we try and tell you, Crowley? People have tried to have us killed before, it's not that easy" Dean said, smirking.

"You'll never get out of here alive" Crowley retorted, trying to maintain a facade of calm but the panic in his eyes was evident, "there's no escape."

"I don't know; I've learned a few tricks" the girl informed him.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like this" The knife flashed as she drew it back and slashed at his palm, shedding the demon kings blood. At the purposeful distraction, she turned, taking at step forwards. In one movement, she placed a hand on each of their chests and pushed.

Dean felt like he was being pushed backwards, the schoolhouse flashing before his eyes in one instant, but in the next it was replaced by grass; he found himself stumbling backwards as he was pushed, regaining his own unsteady footing as he glanced around. They were in a field, grass or trees in every direction. Sam was beside him, also stumbling backwards like he'd been pushed, and the world seemed to suddenly right itself the moment the girl's fingertips lost contact with their chests. They'd been zapped to someplace else, like Cas used to be able to do. The brother's looked at each other, assessing they were both alright. It was a relief to both of them to be alive, and not seriously injured. Dean put a hand out to rest on his brother's shoulder, and Sam nodded in response to him he was fine.

The girl stood in front of them, looking shaken but planning. "We haven't got much time, so listen: there's a car in a field, three miles east of here. You're going to have to walk to it - the keys in the ignition, and you're going to drive to the nearest town – its thirty miles away. When you get there, you've got to change cars, go in another direction. You keep doing this until you get to wherever you've been hiding out, it's hidden so well they had to start killing to find you. So you'll be safe there until the heat is off. Go." The girl ordered quickly, starting to turn away.

"Wait, slow down" Dean said, calmly as possible, a hand held out to steady the girl. "What's going on?"

"You need to get out of here, they'll be coming" she answered, looking down as she clipped bullets into a gun she had hidden in her jeans. She looked calm for someone who'd just helped Hell's most wanted get away. "Why did you help us escape?" asked Sam.

"I had to," she said, looking up and catching his eyes now. There was no lies there, not ulterior plan or reasons, just honesty and fear, "I had to do something good."

"But what about you? Where are you going?" Dean demanding, noticing she had been using 'you' instead of 'us' when giving instructions.

"I'm going back there, they'll find you too quickly if I don't hold them off" she explained.

"What? No!" Sam shouted, "There's too many –they'll kill you!"

"You don't really have a choice here" she pointed out.

"You're family; we can't let you down again. You're not going back" Dean ordered forcefully, making his 'my decision is final' face. It worked on Sam all the time, but this girl didn't know him, so hooked an eyebrow playfully and acted calmer than she felt, "In case you haven't noticed, I'm good at my job. I can hold them off: you go."

"The answer's still no" Dean said assuredly, crossing his arms across his chest.

"What makes you think you have any right to tell me what to do?" she shouted for the first time, stepping forward to yell in the older brother's face. Her face hardened, "We ain't family. You don't know me, or what I've done. I have to do this, so go." When it looked like the boys would argue back, she spoke again, more quietly. "Listen, if I get out of this, I'll find you and explain everything. I promise."

"Yeah, 'if'" Dean retorted back, angry that they had no other choice. The girl smiled sympathetically, knowing they would be feeling like crap, and started turning away again. "Wait," Sam called after her, "You're saving us, and we don't even know your name." He wondered if she even had a name; it didn't seem like a very demon thing to do. He wondered if she even had an identity, and it was a crushing feeling.

She glanced over her shoulder, saying with a small smile and nod, "Leah." Then she vanished.

* * *

Crowley was furious, yelling at every demon in sight to get after the Winchesters. He should have known not to trust that bitch; that humans were too fickle and emotional to get the job done. Cursing his own stupidity, he damned the ridiculous meaning of family, and how those boys seemed to get everyone ever to become theirs. He was sure they'd tricked the girl somehow into trusting them. Of course she would, she was human. He was terrified that now he was, too. It worried him, the relief he'd felt when they'd escaped. Screaming, he sent the table crashing over, flipping it in rage. "Find them!" he barked, sending demons scattering, "bring me the girl's head!" He would get them eventually, but his troops might start losing faith, and he couldn't afford that.

* * *

Sam and Dean stared at the spot where the girl had vanished for a few moments in stunned silence, trying to process the events of the day, before Dean tugged his brother's shirt "Come on." They began making their way through the fields, deep in grass up to their waists, neither speaking. Side by side they walked, looking over their shoulders for demon attacks, ready for pretty much anything. Their hearts were still beating, blood still pumping; they were alive. They didn't expect to be right now.

"So we run again?" Sam sighed wearily, as they passed a rickety fence, jumping over the splintered wood. Dean looked at him, guilt spreading through his veins.

"We have to, Sam. If that girl was telling the truth, we can survive this" he reminded his brother.

"But at what cost? Leah's going to die, Dean. Our family – dying again for us" in his self-pitiful tone, Sam felt desperate. He wanted to save her, even if he wasn't sure they could trust her. Crowley was right about family being their weakness. "Maybe," Dean sighed. He felt so bad that she had done that for them, but glad that Sammy was still breathing because of her bravery, "maybe not. If she's anything like Bobby, then she's a fighter. We'll just have to wait and see if she keeps her promise."

"And if she does? Do we trust her?" Sam asked.

"What do you mean?"

"She saved us, but she's still one of them. She grew up in hell, what changed that made her save us? What if this is all a trap?" Sam stopped. He faced his brother, who too paused, looking pissed.

"You really think so? That she risked her life just to mess with us? She's Bobby's daughter" Dean said slowly, as he got frustrated with his own doubts. Yeah, he wasn't sure they could trust her either.

"Only by blood" Sam reminded him. "I'm just saying we should be careful."

"We can't change who we're born, but we can change how we live. She saved us. She saved _you_, Sammy. In my books, that makes her a friend."

"Alright," Sam agreed cautiously, and they started walking again, "but she has things to explain."

"We all do" Dean said, walking faster.

They found the car, dirty and old, in the field, where Leah had promised it would be. There were even supplies and money in the glove box. Pulling out of the field slowly, they started homewards, gaining pace as they hit a dirt road. When they saw a sign, it revealed the girl had zapped them all the way over to North Carolina. "She's smart" Sam commented, impressed, "sending us so far away to avoid suspicion."

"Just means we've got further to go to get back to the bunker" Dean said.

"She couldn't have known that, though. Remember? She said they couldn't find the bunker" Sam defending her. He felt bad for doubting her, but there was a lot unanswered on her part. What could change her so much that a lifetimes training in hell could be broken? So she would help them, who'd she'd been trained to kill? It was all questions they would have to ask her if they ever saw her again.

"Let's go home" Dean said softly. Then, he made a face, poking at the car's ancient stereo system. "I wonder if this junkyard escapee has any good music" he pondered. The radio glowed into life, but the only station it played was an awful country and western signal.

Dean groaned."Guess not" Sam laughed beside him. They set out. Miles to go, revelations of the day enough to give them headaches, but still very much alive, they kept driving.

* * *

Leah appeared back at the lecture hall. The first demon to notice her called out her name, and soon she had the attention of the entire crowd. She grinned, one foot in front of the other, ready, as an angel blade fell from up her black jackets sleeve. Dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket, with the long blade in one hand and the gun in the other, she looked deadly. Back hunched, ready to spring into action, her grin widened. "What? All too scared to fight a little human?" the sarcasm dripped from her low tone, infuriating the demons. It was true: they had trained with her, watching her for her whole life. They knew what she was capable of. So yeah, they were kind of reluctant to be the first ones killed. That was until Crowley, from the door, screamed at them to kill her. Then, deciding they stood a better chance all rushing her at once, a small army of demons charged.

She swung the blade artfully once, twisting her wrist so it flashed through the air, and laughed. Then they were on her. She shot with shockingly accurate aim, her blade slashing and cutting with her other hand, with moved with perfect precision to tear through their flesh. Twenty were down easily, bullets ripping through heads of more than one, killing two birds with one stone. But there were more coming. As one particularly huge man cornered her, she crouched, swinging the blade and rolling forwards. Ankles gone, the demon fell screaming. She jerked the blade up, through the chest of another demon, as she got to her feet, shooting another three with her spare hand. Then, a demon grabbed her from behind, rendering the weapons obsolete, and giving opportunity for others to attack her front. Reacting quickly, Leah threw her body forwards, sending her attacker over her head, landing on the blade. As she yanked her blade back, the next group attacked. It was going to be a long night.

She had the grace of a fighter. Her movements were fluid, like an intricate dance. She kicked, shot, stabbed with every piece of her; the anger of the last few years finally on show. She found out who she really was, a human, five years ago. But she had waited for the right time to present itself before making her move. Now she could get revenge for every terrible thing they'd ever made her do. Spitting out blood after the second wave of attackers, injured but not dead like her opponents, she grinned again. They had made her a perfect monster, their best soldier: but now she fought against them and all their training came back to bite them in the ass. It was here, in battle, that she was in her element.

More demons came, at least forty already dead behind her on the stage. Blood matted her hair, her clothes stained, but it was insignificant. She knew her orders: to keep the Winchesters alive. Because the one who had told her the truth, who had saved her from what they were making her to be - he had told her everything. The role the Winchesters played. She'd get back to them, because it was her job to protect them. But of course she would tell them any of this yet. "Hey Crowley," she shouted between slashes, the number of demons getting low, "See you in hell!" Then she zapped off again, but not back to the boys just yet. She had to lock down this plan to kill them; make sure they weren't caught. Crowley would give up after a couple of weeks, so until then, she had their backs, even if they didn't know it. Turning on heel, she was gone, like dust in the wind.

* * *

The Winchesters drove for a day, arriving back at the bunker just as night fell. They were tired, worn out of the past day. It wasn't an easy one, and they were wracked with guilt and questions that needed to be answered. Turning the key to the bunker, they found the lights inside to be on, and as they entered, Kevin rushed from inside. "Guys?" he asked cautiously, unsure if it were really them, "we thought you were dead." To check, for he knew enough to be careful, he splashed them with holy water. Dean looked irritated as the water hit him, eyebrows jumping up as he said in an annoyed tone, "_we_?"

"Hello, Dean" Cas stepped into the light behind Kevin, small smile on his face.

"_Cas_?" Dean demanded, not sure whether to be angry or happy to see his old friend. Cas had been AWOL for months, and distant even before then. Since he'd fell, he had been different, not just in the sense that he was human. He spoke less to them, and then when he did; it was like he had something to say but couldn't find the words. Cas never did tell them what it was that was bothering him, just stopped showing up one day, disappearing from the bunker. "It's good to see you again" the angel said, deadpan as ever.

"You too, Cas. Where the hell have you been?" Sam asked guardedly, glancing at Dean quickly to gauge is brother's reaction. They walked into the bunker now, and the young Winchester took a seat at the table, as did Kevin. "I have been busy, there was things I had to sort out" Castiel explained with a tiny shrug, remaining standing.

"Like what?" Dean demanded, definitely angry now.

"Personal things" Cas answered, not meeting his eye.

"And you didn't think to tell us where you were? Or what was wrong?"

"I couldn't" sighed the fallen angel, looking even more crestfallen, "I was going to come back in time, it's just – I didn't know where my head was."

"We needed you!" Dean yelled, an arm held out in rage, "we nearly died today."

"-and you wanted me to come with you?" Cas asked, head tilted to one side in confusion, like he used to. The familiarity of the action hurt Dean, and he realized how much he had missed his friend while he was missing. "No!" shouted Dean, hurt that the angel would even think that, face contorted with emotion, "I'd never ask that of you. I just didn't want to die without saying goodbye!"

Cas still wasn't used to human emotions, but at that second he felt terrible. An overwhelming guilt, a devastating anguish, and he hung his head. "I'm sorry" he whispered, wishing he had his angel powers back so he could disappear. After a few minutes of Cas standing morosely, Dean spoke again, more softly than before, "Listen, Cas, we want to help you get your grace back too, believe me we do – but we can't do that if you're not here."

"It's been six months since I fell" Cas replied sadly, looking up at him, "how can we know if that's even still possible?"

"What does it matter? It doesn't matter of you can't get your grace back – you don't just walk away. You're still family" Dean said.

"Exactly: we're family and I couldn't be of use anymore. The whole of Heaven fell, and as far as they knew – I was the culprit. Angels or not, they're coming after _me_. But I can't protect you from them anymore" Cas held his arms awkwardly by his sides as he spoke, still so un-human in his actions. He felt devastated, lonely and lost – but here he was, found again. "So what? You got it alone against them? You're human now, Cas – at least together we stand a chance. We don't need your protection, we just need you here, and dying alone out there isn't going to help anyone" Dean almost yelled, forcing himself to regain some composure by breathing heavily.

"But what if it gets you killed? How could I live with that?" the angel claimed, hurt expression all over his face; he didn't seem the powerful being he was before. Even the action of being hurt gave that away. "And what if you die, huh? How do we?" Dean replied, and Cas had no answer to that.

* * *

Everyone went to sleep angry, or hurting, that night. The boys stayed up worrying about Leah; if she was lost just as soon as they'd found her. Cas, who hadn't needed sleep before, lay awake wishing he knew the answers of how to be human. He wanted to tell them what was wrong, but it was too honest, exposing his heart. Maybe one day he'd tell them what his nightmares showed since falling, but not today.

Things were changing for them, but they could still get better. Leah knew something big, and it would blow this whole thing wide open. An answer to the end of all things, once she told them: if she got the chance to. But until then, there was only surviving. But they were good at that.

* * *

The next morning, Dean was awake before everybody else, cooking breakfast for them all in the kitchen. He hadn't been able to sleep, there was too much to think about: Leah, Cas, the demons. Things had changed a lot in the past six months. When Cas had fallen, Dean hadn't known if he were dead or alive for days – until he'd shown up at the bunker. But he was human; he'd lost his grace and fallen. All of the angels had. It had taken weeks for Cas to get used to it: they would hear crashes from all over the bunker from where he'd fallen, unbalanced after the loss of his wings. He'd forget to eat or sleep and they would find him passed out in the oddest of places. But eventually, he adjusted. Castiel learned to walk, then run - then run away. Dean hadn't known what to think; or where his friend was. He had been mad for a long time, pissed Cas had deserted them, until he stopped to think what it would be like to lose everything that made you yourself. Then, Dean was just lost. He wished he could find his friend, and they tried to: but Cas was deceptively good at hiding.

When the angel had turned up again last night, he'd reacted badly, and regretted it. Breakfast was a start to make amends. He sighed as the eggs frying in front of him hissed; not remembering when he'd last had a good night's sleep. Poking them with a spatula, Dean got ready to serve up the breakfast he had made. Turning to get the plates from the cupboard, he jolted to a stop when he found Cas standing by the door watching him. "Cas" he said, confused.

"Good morning, Dean" the angel replied, a strange look on his face that Dean could not place, but it was the ex-angels clothes that caught his attention. Cas caught the look, for he pulled the edge of the shirt uncertainly, "I found the shirt in a drawer upstairs, I hope you don't mind me borrowing it." It was a red plaid button up of Deans, but the angel wore it open over a plain white t shirt.

"No, its fine," the hunter shook his head, voice quiet, "It suits you." Cas nodded, giving him a small smile as he fully entered the room. The red of the shirt was so different than the usual trench coat; it made him look more colourful, more alive. "I'm glad you're back, Cas" Dean said quietly, twisting around to plate up the breakfast to avoid looking at the angel. It was the closest to '_I'm sorry too'_ he ever got. Dean put a plate of eggs on the table, where Castiel had just sat, and forced a grin onto his face. "Sunny side up" he said, so Cas smiled, thankful of the gesture. If there was one thing he'd learned to appreciate since becoming human, it was the little, and ordinary things that made everything look better, "thank you." And that was all that needed to be said.


	5. Where's your Mummy?

'Where's your Mummy?'

Three weeks later, and the Winchesters were back on the job. They'd heard nothing from Leah, or the demons; it had been complete radio silence. No more deaths, or threats – just nothing. They worried for her, wondering what had happened to the girl who could have been their sister. But they didn't speak about it, not ever. It was their thing. So, assuming she hadn't made it out, they did what she told them to: lie low. When nothing happened; the heat was off, they ignored the guilt and got back to work.

News of a weird case floating around reached them on the Tuesday of the fourth week, and going stir crazy in that bunker, they decided to check it out. Word was, people up in New York were dying in strange was at the National Museum. These 'accidents' looked like one of their cases, considering the four guards and cleaners who had died so far had gone in less than normal ways. One impaled on a war recreations sword. One fell from a balcony and landed on the front desk. One was cleaning an antique rifle when it misfired. One slipped on the floor they'd just cleaned – right onto a Tyrannosaurus' jaw. It was crazy enough to check out, but even if it was a false alarm, a trip to the big city might be a pleasant day or two off.

* * *

SUPERNATURAL

* * *

"I love this city" Dean sighed happily as he bit into a jumbo pretzel from a 42nd street vender, "You don't get food like this anywhere else but New York." Sam smiled at his brother's antics, shaking his head as he wondered if there was anything actually edible here – there was enough sugar on Dean's pretzel to fill a salt shaker. "How far to the museum?" Sam asked with a laughing tone, so Dean pulled a tourist map from his pocket and made a face. "Couple streets, we need to go left here" his brother answered, and they turned down the long street to their left. The streets in this city never seemed to end, stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction. It was just the two brothers' on the hunt, because Kevin was working on the tablet and Cas had decided to stay at the bunker. He might not have left them this time, but he was still quiet, staying in the room they'd given him for most of the day. Dean was worried about what he wasn't telling them, but if Cas wasn't ready to talk, all that they could do was wait.

Within a few minutes they were standing in front of a huge stone structure, with twenty foot advertisements hanging on banners for attractions inside: Dinosaurs, mummies, natural exhibits, even a Mammoths tooth. In all honesty, it looked like a lot of fun inside. But this was work, which always turns to crap in some way, so they were apprehensive upon entering.

The plan was to check around, scoping the place out subtly while acting as tourists. So, they took the tour, walking around with a group through exhibits and galleries for a few hours. The place was huge, equally as vast as the bunker, and every nook was filled with some little piece of history. Sam loved it; if he had a day off, he'd spend it like this. Dean thought it was alright, pretty cool for a nerd hotspot. Plus, the mannequin cave girls were hot. It was almost a day off until the EMF in Dean's pocket started whirring; telling them something was definitely up there. The oldest brother sighed in resignation at the sound, hanging his head. "Plan B then" Sam commented, genuinely regretful they wouldn't be taking the rest of the tour.

Dean twisted his lips downwards into a frown and nodded, "I hate this city."

* * *

Unfortunately for them, 'Plan B' involved yet another, more scruffy cover: taking the newly vacated jobs as night watchmen of the museum. It wasn't hard to score the jobs at an interview that afternoon, as the museum was four workers down, with the rest threatening to walk due to 'unsafe' conditions. They got the jobs, and the uniforms, with the boss telling them to report for their first shift at 12am that night. Then the fun would really begin at the museum.

They were eating a diner at about eleven, New York chicken and fries stacked him in front of Dean, while Sam smiled wryly as he picked at a Veggie pizza. It was the closest thing to actual vegetables for miles. "So it's a spirit ganking watchmen" Dean said mid-bite, content at the moment but knowing there was a long night ahead of them. Being an all-night watchman was hard enough, without having to doge Casper the bloodthirsty ghost at the same time. "Probably, if the EMF was picking up on it. You packed the supplies in case it shows up?" Sam answered.

Dean tapped a backpack next to him, "Got salt, gasoline, energy drinks, a mini flamethrower, your laptop for research while we're not busy, and some snacks," he grinned back up at his brother, who raised his eyebrows sceptically, "everything you need for an all nighter."

"This is going to be the most fun sleepover _ever_" Sam replied dryly, and his brother frowned back. Taking a final bite of his burger and a loud slurp of soda, Dean said "come on, I want to take the long way there."

"Why?"

"Just trust me, alright" Dean grinned back, grabbing his coat with one hand and throwing it on as he left the diner. Shaking his head, but after a sigh, smiling, Sam followed, wondering what his brother had planned.

* * *

Central park. _So that was Dean's plan_, Sam thought, as they crossed the road to get to the huge black gates. It was late, so the traffic was light, everything glowing with neon lights in the centre of the city. Sam smiled as they entered the park, so green and alive in the concrete palace of America. There was no one around at this time of night, the scene lit by glowing streetlamps, sky dark above. You could never see the stars this far in to big cities. The trees towered over their heads, the park stretching out for miles ahead of them in the dark. At first, the two brothers stuck to the path winding about the place, through the heart of the park. It was smooth to walk on; the tree's bending to make a shelter overhead, a tunnel of leaves around them. The lamps were placed every ten feet of so, sending light over a small area surrounding it but leaving the gaps in between in darkness. Their feet fell to the same beat, perfectly in time, as they strolled past the scenery. Not having to run for their lives, or look behind their back for once, they were just two brother's enjoying the view. It really was a beautiful place. Sam glanced over to Dean to thank him, and found his brother already watching him with a smile. "Knew you'd like it" Dean grinned, laughing as he looked away, out towards the distant body of water they were slowly approaching. Sam's eyes were tearful: he thought back to a time he'd been so afraid Dean no longer trusted him, but when his brother did things like this? It was almost normal. Almost a brother taking his little sibling out to show him something they would like just for the hell of it, having a normal day out. He smiled back fiercely, "This is extraordinary."

When they met the lake, they chose to stray from the set path in favour of walking at the water's edge, across the grass. They tramped down the green plants, some parts already worn from where tourists had walked before, pleased to have a night off – at least until they got to work. Dean half-wished Cas was there to see it, thinking if they could show him a better side of humanity, a side that could create something as blissful as this, the angel wouldn't be so blue at being one of them. He figured being human was the thing bumming Cas out, but he couldn't be sure. It sure seemed to cheer Sam up, as he watched his brother's face as they traversed the park: it was relaxed, the tightness of the past few months completely gone; his lips kept absent-mindedly twitching into a smile, almost as if he didn't realize the joy. Seeing Sam like this filled Dean with joy too, he didn't need anything else.

Suddenly, the older Winchester paused, tensing up. "What is it?" Sam asked, noticing the movement. Dean waited for a second before answering, holding up a finger for silence as he strained to listen. He could've sworn he heard a twig snap behind them a few seconds ago, but now only the sounds of night life and distant traffic remained. Shaking it off as being his paranoid mind, he shook his head, "nothing."

"You sure?" Sam was naturally concerned, the tension back on his face. Dean nodded firmly, and they started walking again. The lake past them by, and all so soon, they had covered the entire distance of the park, the gates at the other side looming up before them. They stopped just inside and turned for a final look, before crossing the border, back into the hive of the city.

* * *

Dean whistled softly as he wandered down the long corridor, swinging his keychain. Blue bullet proof vest and dark trousers on, not to mention the large blue hat, he looked the part. Flashlight in his belt, alongside his hidden salt gun and walkie-talkie, he strolled through the museum, a skip to his step. He was enjoying this too much. "Really, Dean?" Sam whispered, appearing behind him and tugging uncomfortably at his own uniform. Due to the size of the pervious employees, his vest was three sizes too small, with hilarious consequences. "I'm not the 0ne who raided Thumbelina's closet" his brother replied dryly, walking ahead still. Pulling a sour face, Sam fell into step beside him. A couple of hours into their first shift, and nothing spooky had happened yet. No noises, no EMF, nobody was dead yet, which was a good start. That was, until the scream echoed from down the corridor.

With a single look, the boys were running, heading straight for the source. They pulled their guns, stopping at the corner to check the coast was clear before racing towards a man in the art gallery, slumped against a bench. Running across to him, it was clear he was dead: the blood slowly leaking onto the floor, dripping through the bench cracks, evidence of that. They reached the body, and Sam had to cover his mouth with his sleeve to stop from retching. The man, a guard like themselves, was upright on the bench, held up by the two decorative spears from the Mayan ages – pushed through his eye sockets into the wall behind. It was horrific. "That's not nice" Dean muttered, leaning over to get a better look at the guy, then around them in case the attacker was still present. Sam too raised his gun once more, for the gallery was dark, inky black spots hiding complete areas and possible phantoms. They waved their guns about, eventually covering the entire gallery to reach a fuse box in the corridor, flipping the lights. There was nothing there; no one hiding in the dark. The brightness was a deep contrast to the low lights before, causing them to blink heavily to adjust their eyesight. It was because of this that they missed the shadow at the other end, near the body, running away.

"What the hell's going on?" another security guard appeared behind them, and stumbled back in fright upon seeing the body, clutching his heart. Slightly concerned he was having a heart attack, the brothers traded looks before telling their cover story. "It's our first night, sir, we were patrolling and we found him like this" Sam explained, doing his best to stutter and look as confused as the other man did. It would do no good to look calm and collected now, like this was their job; for all intents and purposes, they had to be innocent bystanders. "Of course, boys. Come away from it now, we have to go call the cops" the other guard, a quite elderly white-haired man, ushered them away from the scene, thinking he was the experienced one in this situation. Nodding, as there was nothing that could be done now, Sam and Dean followed him, both lost in their own thoughts. They should have saved that man: that was their purpose there, but this spirit must be very, _very_ angry to be capable of something like that. Knowing now that the museum was not safe, they needed only to find out who the spirit was and where he was buried – pretty hard considering they had no idea what he looked like.

The next morning, after spending much of the previous night answering questions from the cops about 'finding' the body, the Winchesters sat back at their motel, looking through records. Although they should probably have been sleeping, considering they had just pulled a night shift, they had no intention of resting for a while. Sam scrolled on his laptop, searching for accidents or deaths at the museum, while Dean sat amidst old yellowed newspaper clippings from decades ago. Words, facts, names of a hundred people that could be their spirit faced them – now began the long process of narrowing it down. The oldest Winchester rubbed his eyes, the words starting to blur on the page in front of him, before throwing it to the ground with a sigh. "I'm going to get coffee, otherwise I'll be comatose by lunch" he announced, and his brother laughed weakly from across the room, equally tired. Dean looked over to Sam, who looked beat, and clapped his hands, "and you're getting a few hours shut eye."

"What? Dean, no, I've got to finish here" Sam protested, but his brother just crossed the room and slammed Sam's laptop shut, almost trapping his brother's fingers on the keyboard. Sam looked up frustrated, and then saw from the set of Dean's jaw that arguing would help anything. "Go. Sleep until lunch and I'll come back and wake you up then – this can all wait 'til later" Dean persuaded, so eventually Sam through his hands up and gave in.

"Fine, but you have to sleep too you know" he said.

"Only when I have enough alcohol in me" Dean grinned back, meaning it as a joke but not knowing how the truth in the words hurt Sam inside. "Oh, and in case you think of carrying on when I leave-" The older Winchester scooped up the laptop and research notes, before giving a falsely cheerful smile and leaving. Once outside, he locked the laptop in the boot, knowing it wasn't too far into the city from here. He'd walk it easily, plus parking in the city was hell. Back at the motel, Sam watched Dean locking his things away with a wry grin, shaking his head. Giving in to exhaustion, he decided if there was nothing he could do; he might as well sleep, and crashed on the closest bed. Fully clothed, he drifted to sleep, a surprisingly deep one. And for once, he did not dream.

* * *

Dean strolled through the streets of New York, cup of coffee in one hand and no real destination in mind. It was a gorgeous day: just the right amount of sun with a breeze gusting down the concrete to cut through the heat. The coffee was warm, kicking in finally after half an hour; he was content in just walking until noon. He walked past glowing signs and giant department stores, the entire town already full to the brim and busy despite this early hour. People bumped into him, but he didn't mind, jumping to walk on the edge of the road instead of the jammed sidewalk. He swung his arms casually, as he reached an interstate and crossed, onto the more suburban area of the city, on the outskirts. He debated turning back to walk through the hustling streets some more, or even to go back to the park, but the roads in front seemed more peaceful, like a picture perfect neighbourhood in the weather, so he just went straight ahead.

Apartment blocks and houses stretched out, the few people about milling towards the city behind him. As the noises of the rumbling city faded, leaving the occasional passing of cars and chatter in the air, he figured he'd better start heading back. The walk had done him good; cleared his head a little. He wasn't even tired anymore. As he turned, a little boy ran into him, tripping and falling on the pavement. Internally cursing himself, Dean immediately knelt next to the kid, apologising as he helped the boy to his feet. With a mop of blonde hair and blue eyes, the boy couldn't have been over five, and had huge tears running down his face as he stood, a minor scrape on one knee. "Hey, hey it's alright" Dean soothed, helping the boy to stand back up as he crouched beside him, looking around for the child's parents. "Look at that, it's just a little scratch – not going to let that stop a big man like you, are you?" Dean said kindly, giving the boy a small smile. From his hung head, the boy shook his head fiercely, blonde locks bobbing. Dean smiled at him, "atta boy, you see – all better."

"Where's my mom?" the child sobbed tearfully in response, voice tiny and quivering. The oldest Winchester glanced about, but saw no signs of anyone who looked like the boy. He didn't lie to the kid, it was patronising and annoying when adults did that. "I don't know, kid. But what do you say we go find her?" he said instead, and the little boy nodded back, holding out a hand for him to take. Dean, already uncomfortable, stooped to hold the boys hand as they walked down the street. After a few minutes, the child seemed to forget about his scrape, and looked up at Dean curiously. "Who are you?" he piped up quietly, stumbling over his own feet as they wandered along.

"I'm Dea-Matt" the Winchester awkwardly replied, using his cover name with his head whipping around frequently as he searched for a mother's face about, "what's your name?"

"Ewan Jameson" chirped the kid, skipping along now beside him. Dean smiled softly at his antics, paternal instinct kicking in. It contorted his face into this smile before he shook himself, becoming serious again: he could never have a life like that. "Well then maybe that will help us find your mom" he said, but at that moment, a tall blonde woman appeared at the corner of the block. Her face was frantic with worry, eyes wide, but they relaxed when they fell upon the boy beside him. "Momma!" Ewan cried, releasing Dean's hand, which he had been clutching tightly, and ran towards the woman. "What have I told you about running off?" the lady was saying to him as she hugged him when Dean got there a moment later, standing awkwardly, unsure what to say. "Sorry ma'am, I'm afraid I knocked him over back there" he said apologetically, so the lady looked up at the new voice, then back down at her son. She smiled motherly at the scrape, before laughing gently. "Oh, I'm sure it's not your fault, he's always running into everything" she smiled up at the stranger, standing up with her son's hand locked in her own. "Thank you -um?" she paused.

"-Matt graham," he supplied, and shook the offered hand, "I'm new here, just look a job at the museum."

"Really?" the woman smiled, seeming too grateful to leave, "My father, Tim, he worked there as a night watchman."

"What a coincidence - does he still work there?" he asked, thinking of the grey haired guard last night who had helped them.

"Oh, no," the woman shook her head sadly now, "he passed away last year."

"I'm sorry"

"No need," she weakly attempted to look happy again, forcing a bright look, "I hope you love the job as much as he did."

"He did it for a long time?"

"Until the day he died," she smiled nostalgically, "unfortunate accident at work. But I wouldn't want to put you off – especially with the nasty business up there at the moment."

"Yeah, it's really terrible. But it works out for me - how else would an idiot like me get a job?" he joked, and she laughed before Ewan pulled her sleeve, wanting to leave to play again. Looking down at the impatient child, that look of motherhood crossed the young lady's face again. "I don't know, you don't seem that bad to me" she smiled genuinely, taking her sons hand again as they prepared to leave, "maybe I'll see you around?"

"Hopefully" he replied. They turned to leave, Ewan already running ahead as his mother chased behind him, heel's clipping against the concrete. "Goodbye!" the boy stopped at the corner and waved back, almost falling with the huge motion of frantically waving his arms. Dean couldn't hold back a laugh, which faded to a small, lonely smile as he gave a tiny wave back, lips twitching downwards, "see ya, kid."

* * *

Sam awoke when his brother entered the room, throwing the laptop onto the edge of the bed, "got a name for you Sammy – Tim Jameson."

"What?" newly awake and groggy, Sam sat up, back hunched, as he rubbed his eyes. His clothes were slightly crumpled, hair messy, but at least he felt refreshed.

"Name – ghost – Jameson" Dean stated clearly, smirking at the look on his brother's face. Sleepy Sam was always amusing. He crossed the room, clicking his fingers in front of his brother's face repeatedly. "Alright, quit that. I'm up" Sam complained, slapping the hands away so Dean grinned, taking a seat on his own bed. The younger brother opened his laptop, the suddenly artificial light waking him up even more, and searched the name Dean had given him. Instantly, an article came up 'Museum employee dies in freak accident'. Surprised it was a real person, his lips turning down in an impressed expression. "Tim Jameson, 74, died in a freak accident in 2011 after being electrocuted at the museum, due to faulty wiring" he read aloud from the article, eyebrows turned up, and across from him, Dean looked thoughtful. "There's more – 'The museum refused his family compensation for the accident, insisting it was his own job to see the wiring was in order, and his failure to complete these duties were the cause of his death'" Sam definitely made a face at that, as did his brother.

"The douchebags" Dean commented, angry on the man's behalf.

"You can understand why he'd be pissed" Sam said, half disappointed they'd have to gank the guy, "but I think we've found our spirit – the new guards must have been his replacements. How'd you hear the name anyway?"

"Bumped into a kid and helped him to find his mom – it was her dad" Dean answered, looking away as he decided to pack, ready to hit the graveyard later. Sam looked up sharply, but his brother had his back to him. Dean said all the time that having a normal life wasn't for him: but seeing him with kids – he was a natural father. He would be better than their dad. It filled Sam with sorrow that his brother didn't believe he could live a life like that. "So what are we going to do?" the younger Winchester subtly changed the subject, willing to just let it drop.

"One of us will have to watch the museum while the other lights up the old guy" Dean replied casually, restocking the salt in his gun.

"I'll take the old guy then" Sam offered, knowing Dean would have sympathy for the family now he'd met them, making it harder for him.

"What? I thought you loved the museum?" Dean asked.

"And I thought _you_ loved being a watchman" Sam replied sarcastically, thinking of his brother swinging around the keychain and twiddling with the hat. Dean enjoyed the gig way too much; in another life, he'd make a great night watchman. "You just don't like the uniform" Dean retorted surlily, and it was set.

* * *

That night, as Dean worked the shift at the museum, Sam drove the impala to a graveyard outside the city. Shovel in hand; he walked briskly through the dusk air past the crumbling grave markers, looking for Mr. Jameson's plot. It didn't take long to find, with the flashlight helping to locate the name, and before long he stood above the right grave. The digging was easy, and soon the coffin was uncovered, a mound of dirt beside him. He'd worked up a sweat with the work, thin sheen covering his face; dirt on the knees of his jeans where he'd leant and smudged on his shirt. Now, he took a crowbar from the grass where he'd left it, cracking the coffin open. Sam made a face at the smell, the not so ripe corpse looking none too pretty. Working quickly, he pulled a box of salt from the duffel he carried with him, placing the crow bar back inside as he did. Within minutes, the body was coated with salt, like snow, and Sam pulled out a tanker of gasoline. Tipping its yellow contents over the grave, he paused with a match in his hand. "Sorry, Mr. Jameson. Wish I didn't have to do this" He said quietly, but then he struck a match with a small shrug.

The flames engulfed the body, burning everything away with it. Sam expected something to happen then or for Mr. Jameson's spirit to appear, but nothing happened. After maybe five minutes, he left, thinking it had either worked, or something else was up. Either way, all roads lead back to that museum – and that irritating uniform.

* * *

Dean wandered through the darkened halls; the only other guard who'd shown up beside him was the old guy from the other night. Everyone else was mysteriously 'sick' that day: more likely they were too afraid to show up. He had spoken to the old guy when he'd shown up, who was currently covering the doors while Dean scanned the inside. Honestly, he was glad the guy was safe outside . . . even if it meant he was the only target left within the walls. Figuring there was no one around to think it strange; he pulled his gun from his belt, throwing his hat from the balcony so it landed in the main entranceway. More comfortable without it, he even considered taking off the vest, but to be completely honest, he liked it. But he did pull off the tie, dumbly swinging it round the neck of some mannequin in the 'American history' section. It was a soldier, and Dean nodded to him with a smirk, "Looking good."

Now extremely more comfortable minus the hat and tie, the vest suit combo actually looked alright. Almost normal – he should wear it more often. Seeing his reflection in a display, he considered this, making an impressed 'not bad' face before moving on. Although the tension in his shoulders revealed him, he acted like just another watch man, hoping he wouldn't have to put a salt bullet through Mr. Jameson before Sam got to the bones. If he was honest, he understood. Guy works his whole life, gives everything to this place – then he dies and they screw him over? He'd be pissed too in Jameson's position. But killing people? It didn't seem right from an old man like that – something felt wrong.

Passing from American history into the Egyptian section, Dean swung his flashlight around, as the lights above started to flicker. "What the-" he muttered as they dimmed, then went out completely, leaving him in darkness apart from the flashlight in his hand. It shed little light, only directly where it was pointed at; the absence of light left him exposed and vulnerable. He didn't like that one bit, and he had to fight his first instinct to get out, to fight on safer ground. Whatever it was out there, he assumed it was a spirit, wanted him here. So he played the game, switching off his flashlight and taking three silent steps back to the wall, feeling it press against his back. If the ghost wanted to play games, to hunt him, then holding a giant glowing beacon announcing where he was wouldn't help. Quietly as possible, he crept to the right, meaning to get out of the area he'd been in when he'd killed the lights. Even if it was a ghost: it wasn't omniscient, so it would still have to find him.

Standing very still, Dean stayed pressed against the wall, listening hard to the darkness around him. He wasn't entirely sure what he expected, as spirits don't really move, but it sure wasn't what he heard. _Footsteps._ In the area where he'd last been; muffled but there, but they didn't sound like shoes. Tilting his head to train his hearing more, he was sure he couldn't hear breathing from over there either. _So what in hell was this? _He thought, _shoeless intruder? Ghost possession? Some sort of creature? _Deciding it was worth the risk, and knowing the exit wasn't far to get out the room, Dean prepared to turn his torch back on and discover what they were dealing with. Bringing the flashlight up to shoulder height, aimed right at the sound, with his gun in the other hand, Dean took a deep breath, too quiet to be heard, and flicked the light back on. Then he nearly fell over in shock at what he saw.

A Mummy, a freakin' bandaged up, dirty, _walking, living_ **_mummy_**. Like a real one. Dean almost dropped the flashlight in surprise, thinking he'd finally cracked, lost it after everything. _Seriously, a mummy_? At the sudden light, it span to face him, and it was then he saw the reality of it – the bandages holding it were frayed, filthy and not really serving their purpose anymore. Crimson blood stained certain sections, and at some points around the stomach, it looked like the guts were almost out. He hoped those rags would hold it in until they'd ganked it, otherwise the phrase 'slipping on their guts' might have a new meaning. Red eyes gleamed from beneath the head bandages, slightly undone to reveal the rotting face underneath. And they saw him.

"Crap" realizing the situation, Dean flashed a nervous grin at the monster before it came for him. He dodged it, ducking away and running towards the exit of the exhibit at full speed. The Mummy pursued him, stumbling on its bandages as it followed, the lights flickering back on as it left that section. It was classic spirit behaviour, yet it was a Mummy; Dean could make no sense of it. Then the penny dropped – unless it was a spirit possessing its own remains. The hunter reached the exit to the Egyptian exhibit, mocked up stone doors, and struggled to close them. The Mummy was still charging towards him, with a scythe from the wall in its hand now. As he shoved harder, the huge oak doors slammed shut just as the Mummy hit the other side, its fists causing the door to shake as it tried to break through. Spinning round to brace his back against the door, Dean looked around for something to jam it with – until he realized he had the key hanging from his belt. With a sigh of half-relief, half-annoyance, he held his shoulder against the doors as he clicked the key into place and turned it. The doors were now locked, and holding, but the shaking on the other side suggested it wouldn't last for long.

Taking the opportunity to secure it further, Dean used a nearby fire extinguisher as a jam for the door, ramming it in between the handles to cease the movement. The shaking lessened, and he was content that they would hold back the Mummy until Sam got there with the rest of their stuff. He checked his phone; to his surprise red capitalised letters told him there was no signal. Groaning inwardly, he wondered if his brother had been trying to call him, so left to find a place with better reception. Leaving the Mummy behind was a bad idea in hindsight, but at the time it seemed neutralised, and he didn't want Sam worrying. So he walked quickly away, the lights back to normal, wondering why people were so bothered about technology that let them down like this.

* * *

His brother answered the fourth time Sam called. "Dean, you're alright" Sam said upon hearing the line click, the relief in his voice unmistakeable.

"Well, you could say that" Dean replied dryly, from where he stood near a window in the art gallery, higher up with better reception there.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean _we've fallen into a friggin' 1980's horror movie, Sam_" Dean replied, growing more frustrated with every word. He'd seen a lot of crap, but Mummies – now it was just getting ridiculous. He paced where he waited, unable to stand still. "What is it, Dean?" Sam asked, concerned again but slightly amused at Dean's tone as he cruised down a highway towards the city.

"You'll have to see for yourself," Dean admitted, "and Sammy-"

"-yeah?"

"We're gonna need everything you can carry."

* * *

"A Mummy?" Sam asked incredulously, after hearing his brother's story when he'd got to the museum. He sounded sarcastic, with his eyebrows hooked up and lips twitching, so Dean sighed. "Yes a Mummy: I feel like we're in Scooby freakin' Doo" he replied, leading the way to where he'd trapped the monster. Sam said nothing, but wondered if the lack of sleep was getting to Dean as he trailed behind him. When they reached the Egyptian exhibit, the doors were open, a bent red fire extinguisher on the floor in front of it. "No, no, no, no," Dean muttered, walking faster until he got to it, but they were too late – the room was empty. "Damn it!" the older brother cursed, kicking out at the fire extinguisher in frustration and sending it clanking across the room. "I'm guessing it's gone" Sam said from behind him.

"Yeah, it's gone alright"

"So we just have to go find it, it couldn't have gotten far" Sam explained, trying to pacify his brother, who calmed a little before turning to face him. "Listen, I'll take the west side, you take the east, and it's got to be somewhere around, right?"

"What? We can't go alone," Dean protested, "have you never seen a damn horror movie, Sam? You _never_ split up with the creepy ass Mummy on the loose."

Sam rolled his eyes as his brother laughed softly, "Take these." He handed Dean a box of salt and a squirt bottle full of gasoline from the duffel he'd packed, "They're still just remains, right? So we salt and burn as usual."

"If I'm-not-sure-this-isn't-a-dream is usual, then yeah."

"If neither of us has found it, we'll eventually meet in the main gallery. Shout if you see anything" Ignoring Dean's comment with a 'little brother' smile, he set off to the west side of the museum.

Sam hadn't bothered changing into his uniform in the end: there was no one around to keep up appearances for. Gun pointed ahead of him, ready to shoot any rogue Mummies, he made his way through the long halls: with ancient artifacts he didn't want to accidentally destroy on every wall. He'd just have to be careful with his aim. Sam continued this through the first few exhibits, sea life and modern America, before things started getting weird. As he passed into the third hall, 'famous figures of history', the lights started flickering, instantly making him prepared for attack. He stopped, freezing up, and listened, remembering the footsteps Dean had described. _There_, it was behind him to the left. He wheeled around quickly, taking in the tattered thing before him. "Well, aren't you a piss poor excuse for a Halloween costume" he commented before shooting, as the Mummy threw itself at him.

Its body jerked at the bullet hit it, the bullet lodging somewhere inside the rotting flesh, but it was the spirit that caught Sam's eye. As the bullet hit, a cloud of whiteness was yanked from the body puffed out, like a dusty rug that had been shaken. Then, the body fell to the ground at the younger Winchester's feet, a bag of bones once more. Dean arrived a few minutes later, breathless after running the length of the museum, "Sam!" he shouted as he rounded the corner, stopping short at seeing his brother fine, the Mummy at his feet.

"It's just a sprit" Sam confirmed to him, snapping the safety of his rifle back on, "the salt works."

"Which means he'll be back soon" Dean finished, instantly getting to work splashing the flammable liquid on the still figure. Sam nodded, but as he moved to do the same with salt, the body at their feet twitched. Both brothers flinched back, as the Mummy was on its feet in seconds, seeming disorientated until its head snapped round and centred on them. It retrieved its fallen weapon, the scythe, and took a decisive swing at their heads. Both ducked out of habit. "Run?" Dean asked.

"Definitely" Sam agreed, and they each took a way around the Mummy, heading for the double doors on the other side.

* * *

As they ran back through the Sea life exhibit, things went south. Suddenly, as a thunderstorm began outside, the building began to shake, to rumble. As a mighty crack sounded above them, the blue whale hanging above the exhibit started rocking slowly, its hinges weakened. Sam and Dean paused, gazing heavenwards at the fake but still very heavy model, which balanced so delicately now. It swung slowly one way, then the other, before one end shattered, pulling it all down. It fell, right above their heads, as the spirit willed it to. The crack was loud enough to set the brothers into motion, Dean instinctively shoving his brother out of harm's way before dashing for cover himself. Sam stumbled and fell at the shove, landing on one elbow away from the giant form as it crashed against the polished floor, sending dust everywhere. He couldn't see his brother. "Dean!" he called, getting to his feet and looking around, rubble blocking his view, "Dean!" He kept screaming his brother's name, searching through the chaos, but found no trace of him. Just as he was despairing, thinking Dean was crushed beneath the whale's body, a voice spoke from underneath a very big flipper. "I'm alright, I'm over here" rushing to where the voice came from, Sam lifted the massive flipper, using his shoulder to push it off his brother. Dean lay underneath it, blood spurting from his nose; the dust layered into his hair and clothes. "Dean," Sam said, kneeling down next to him, as his brother sat slowly up, no longer trapped by the weight of the whale. "Where's the Mummy?" the oldest brother asked woozily. Sam glanced around from his position, but it seemed the Mummy had been isolated on the far side of the Whale when it had made it fall. It was out of their reach for now; they were safe there for a while. "We're safe; he can't get to us here" Sam replied, "are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," Dean got unsteadily to his feet, although his head span, and the air had been knocked from his lungs - like getting hit by a forty foot blue whale was an everyday occurrence. He brushed some of the dust from his clothes, scowling. "Let's go kill Mr. Bump" he grumbled bitterly, walking past Sam, who almost smiled because his brother wasn't hurt too badly. Now it was Mummy killing time. As if the crash and falling whale hadn't already attracted the tension of the police, they were now off to desecrate a 4,000 year old corpse.

* * *

The Mummy was walking through the belly of a giant Whale, having found a gap near the tail end big enough to walk through. It stumbled; confused and wrathful, looking for the men it had trapped here. It could smell their blood through the body it walked with, but couldn't locate them exactly. It just wanted to kill and tear and rip because there was nothing else left. The Winchesters heard it from outside the shell, listening in before making their way through the rubble to a gap in the creature's side. Through the broken plaster, they could see the Mummy wandering in the rubble – hunting them. But luckily, they were hunting it too, and they had the advantage of knowing where it was, whereas it hadn't seen them yet. For all it knew, they'd been crushed underneath the fake whale.

"Alright, so here's what we do" Dean whispered, making hand gestures and pointing as he explained his plan to Sam, who nodded at its conclusion and began quietly running round the edge of the rubble whale to complete his task. Dean stayed where he was, waiting for Sam's signal and wincing slightly at the ache in his shoulder. He'd managed to roll clear of the body of the falling whale, but hadn't been so lucky avoiding its flippers. They'd taken him out, so now he had a terrible pain his left shoulder; but still, it'd heal eventually. Watching for Sam to appear, Dean observed the Mummies actions as it trod through the rubble, stopping every few minutes to sniff the air. It was tracking them, he figured, but it seemed that the chaos had hidden them for now. He wondered if anyone had heard all the noise and called the cops yet, which they probably had. Getting arrested now would be slightly problematic for the brothers, considering they were legally dead.

Looking up, he saw Sam waiting above them, having climbed atop the whale's back. He held up the gasoline in his hand, the Mummy already covered in enough salt to finish the job, and waited for Dean to make his move. A crack in the top gave him the position to squirt the monster from above – but they had to time it exactly right, giving them a small window of opportunity in which to act. They nodded, and Dean kicked through the remaining rubble, stepping into the belly of the beast. "Hey, ugly" he shouted at the Mummy, who turned to face him, so he grinned, "come and get me." The monster hurled itself forwards, running disjointedly straight at him. Dean walked backwards, until he stood directly beneath the gap in the ceiling where Sam waited. The Mummy followed, running right into him and sending him flying to the ground. "Anytime you're ready" he yelled at Sam, who uncorked the bottle and send the yellow rain pouring. As it hit the Mummy, the figure stopped running, flinching away as the gasoline soaked through its bandages, looking to be in pain. Unfortunately, some of the gasoline splashed into Dean too, but he didn't notice, moving fast to strike the match from his pocket. It burst into flames then grew, until he threw it through the air, hitting the Mummy's chest. The bandaged body was soon alight, screaming and shaking around as the spirit was burned away. It ran in its panic into Dean, who was also set on fire by the explosive liquid, his vest flaming. He fell back, on fire, as his brother roared his name above, struggling the undo the clips holding the vest to his chest, the smoke making it him dizzy, the air too thin.

Finally finding the latch, he unclipped the vest, which was fortunately resistant to most things, and threw it away from his body, taking out the flaming Mummy with it. The body fell, just a body once more and burning, and the fire slowing burned out the two items, growing in height and heat. Dean patted out any remaining flames on him, and sighing in relief at not being burned alive, stood and watched them burning like a bonfire. Sam laughed from above, "I really hated those uniforms."

To which Dean laughed, standing at the foot of the fire now, and joked back, "He would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for us meddling kids."

* * *

Before they skipped town, Sam and Dean took a final walk through central park. It was dusk this time, the world set on fire by the orange sun. "Sure was a weird one, huh?" Sam said as they walked past the lake, littered with white swans and ducks.

"Tell me about it" Dean smirked, "I mean, a freaking Mummy?"

"I know right" Sam laughed, "it was like some sort of practical joke on our lives."

"Well it wasn't very funny."

"It was kinda funny," Sam disagreed, "I thought you'd gone crazy for a second back there."

"So did I" Dean replied, and a content silence fell between them again as they walked. Funnily enough, the trip had done them good. It had been strange, sure, but it was a break from being stuffed up in the bunker. It was hunting again, and it felt right. Getting back into the swing of things would take time, especially with the subjects they skittered around and refused to talk about, but they were the Winchesters: it was what they did. They crossed the final stretch of park, and we're almost out when a familiar blonde head raced towards them, and soon the little boy, Ewan, grinned up at them. "Heya Kid" Dean laughed, "You ran off again?"

"Maybe" the boy lied badly, twiddling his fingers together with a guilty expression.

"Well you'd better get going, your mom will be worried about you" Dean told him, and the boy reached up, giving both brothers a small high five, before racing off, back across the grass to a play area on the far side of the park. They watched him go, and smiled, Dean thinking of the few times he'd seen Sam like that. It didn't happen very often, but sometimes they'd get a day, or a few hours, when their dad was on a case, in which Dean would take a little Sam to the nearest park to them him play. Sam didn't remember this, of course, but Dean would never forget his brother's face when he used to play, and didn't have a care in the world. It was a good memory.

* * *

"Honey, we're home!" Dean yelled to no one in particular when he and Sam entered the bunker, throwing his duffel onto the nearest chair. Kevin looked up from his seat at the dining table, where he sat, as he always did, with the tablet. "Guys, I think I've found something" he said, which instantly attracted their attention, and the brothers wandered over.

Dean stood directly behind the boy while Sam perched atop the table, "What is it, Kevin?"

"I've been working on the angel tablet, and I can tell you for sure that," he paused, looking around for the ex-angel, who wasn't there, before continuing, "the things Metatron had Cas do, they weren't the angel trials."

"But there _are_ angel trials?" Sam asked.

"Of course, but they aren't what Cas did" Kevin replied.

"But do you know what the angel trials are?" Dean asked before pausing, "not that it matters anymore, there's no one left upstairs to lock in."

"That's what I thought, so I've been working on another section, well two actually: one part about grace, here-" He pointed to the right hand bottom corner of the tablet, "or there's this other part here, I've made no progress on it but it seems important." He flipped the tablet to show them a section on the back, which seemed particularly packed with scribbles – more than the rest of the tablet. Certain parts were underlined, and there was a small drawing of two hands in the corner. It certainly seemed like something to take notice of. "-And?" Dean asked.

"Well, nothing yet. I wanted to know which part I should start on" Kevin admitted.

"The part about grace," Dean said instantly, without a seconds thought, but Sam opened his mouth to disagree.

"I don't know, Dean. The other part seems pretty important" he commented.

"More important than getting Cas his grace back?" Dean demanded.

"That's not what I'm saying," Sam said forcefully, getting to his feet, "I'm saying there's a lot going on right now, and we should be personal about this."

"Yeah, and if Cas had his grace back, he can help us"

"What do you think, Kevin?" Sam asked, biting back an angry retort, and turning to their young prophet, who looked like he wanted to crawl away and not get involved in this particular argument. "Maybe I should start on the grace section – work my way up to the other one" he said honestly, as the thought of the more complicated section grace him a headache. No one had warned him this 'prophet of the lord' thing would involve so much studying of dirty rocks. Sam's face closed again, lips coming together in a tight line, "fine."

Back from a hunt, the boys showered and changed then, washing off the city and stepping back into their normal lives. Dean cooked that night, a sort of apology for getting snappy with Sam, and even Cas joined them at the table, as an old movie played in the background. It was never going to be 'normal' with the four of them: but this was about as close as they got. And with Kevin on the verge of something with the tablet, and the boys back hunting, doing what they do best, things were starting to look up again.


End file.
